


paper valentines

by dafeedil



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Break Up, Dreams, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU, Fluff, Heavy Angst, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mild Sexual Content, Reminiscing, Romantic Soulmates, Science Fiction, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dafeedil/pseuds/dafeedil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Valentine’s Day, and Michael and Ashton have erased each other from their respective memories, along with the entirety of the last two years they’ve spent together. </p><p>However, sometimes erasing past mistakes only means you’re ultimately doomed to make the same ones all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paper valentines

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. Wowie. This thing has been the bane of my existence since, like, November? And for a really long time, I was worried that I'd never end up finishing it. Which would've broken my heart, because this is one of my favorite things I've ever written.
> 
> First and foremost, thanks to [Autumn](http://wynw00d.tumblr.com), who literally never fails to listen to my constant screaming about new ideas. You're the bomb.com
> 
> Now, as a heads up: This is broken up into three acts. Each of the acts contains a certain, differing perspective (though they're all from Ashton's POV). To avoid confusion ahead of time, Act Two takes place entirely in Ashton's dreams/unconscious mind, because Act Two is entirely based on memories and conscience. Act Three takes place the morning after Ashton has his dreams. I really think you guys'll have no problem figuring things out, this was just a lil precaution.
> 
> That being said, please! Go forth! Enjoy my first Mashton fic and the fruits of my labor from the past several weeks! A little music to guide you on your journey can be found on [Spotify](https://play.spotify.com/user/dafeedil13/playlist/5rKTBLCjfH9Ac21hGx7tfm)!!

**ACT ONE**

 

Ashton likes to think he's a pretty agreeable guy, all things considered. He's not all that impulsive. He likes having a schedule. And he's usually pretty calm. Sure, he doesn't always say the right thing, but he's pretty sure that doesn't make him purposely ornery or generally rude. He doesn't _mean_ to be a jackass, whenever the event that he acts like one comes around.

So, like, he definitely thinks he has the right to lose a little bit of his cool right now.

Besides, it's not every day that he sees his boyfriend of two years planting kisses on another man.

He'd come in here, to the record store where Michael works, armed with a present—a beautifully quirky bracelet that really only Michael could ever love—wrapped up carefully in a small box, a sincere apology in the only form Ashton's always known to work with Michael. His boyfriend's a sucker for presents, he always has been, and immediately after he'd stormed out of their apartment last week, Ashton had started seeking out the perfect "I'm sorry for being an asshole" gift.

However, it seems as though he won't really be needing it now.

Michael looks at Ashton from behind the counter, one hand on the stack of vinyls he'd just started sorting, and the other still lingering on the waist of the man who'd just kissed him. Ashton doesn't bother looking at the guy's face, instead staring blankly back at Michael with a feeling of devastation and betrayal settling in his stomach.

"Um," is all Ashton can come up with, shifting the present awkwardly.

Michael moves his feet, obviously uncomfortable, before he glances behind Ashton. A line must be forming, if the irritated grumbles are anything to go by, but Ashton can't bring himself to move.

"Can I help you, sir?" Michael asks, muttering a quick goodbye to the man that had kissed him as he starts walking to the back room before Michael offers Ashton a tight smile. A professional one.

Ashton feels slightly like he's floating, then, because this isn't a thing that can just be happening. There's no way Michael literally _doesn’t_ know who he is. They've been together two _years_ , it's not like Michael just _forgot_. That's too much history to just suddenly chop out in merely seven days.

But it's apparently happening, and right in front of him, because Michael's still staring at him with these empty eyes. And sure, they're technically the same eyes, those green ones he fell in love with two years ago, but they don't have the same warmth that they used to, the same welcoming sparkle. Michael isn't looking at Ashton like he hung the stars anymore.

Ashton tries to ask what kind of sick joke this is, what Michael's pulling here, but nothing comes out. Instead, he just continues to stand there stupidly, with a box in his hands that he can't seem to give to Michael anymore, and a broken heart.

Michael's friendly expression fades slightly, and what looks like irritation shines through. "Um, well, just let me know if you need help finding anything, okay? But I need to ring these people up."

Ashton snaps out of it, nodding his head and stepping to the side. The next woman in line steps up, barking at Michael impatiently about the wait. But Michael doesn't really look at her, just keeps glancing over at Ashton with this expression on his face that looks too much like the one Michael had when they met for the first time. Only, Michael's acting like _this_ is the first time.

He feels unsettled, then, even more than he had before. Without looking back, he turns on his heels, rushing out the front entrance of the record store. For a moment, he holds the box containing the bracelet over the open garbage bin outside, but he can't bring himself to let it go, and he ends up sliding the present into his coat pocket instead.

He keeps asking himself, how could Michael not _know_ him?

*********

"You know Michael." Luke says later that night, once Ashton's stormed over to his best friends' house with fire in his veins and a hell of a lot to say about this shitstorm of a situation. "He's just stubborn. It's probably nothing."

Ashton rolls his eyes, sinking down lower into the couch where he's been sitting for the last twenty minutes. He doesn't think he's stopped ranting about how infuriating his afternoon was since Luke let him in, but he has a hard time finding it in himself to feel bad about that.

"Not like this, Luke. Never like this." Ashton picks at a snag in his jeans, looking up when he hears Calum walking back into the living room. He's got three beers with him, and he hands one to both Luke and Ashton before he plops back down in his recliner. "He wouldn't kiss somebody just to _spite_ me, he's not _cruel_." His voice cracks embarrassingly, and he downs a large gulp of his beer to soothe the ache in his throat.

Luke makes a face, chewing on the ring in his lip. His eyes dart over to Calum briefly, and Calum just shrugs, like he's not sure what Luke wants him to say.

Sighing, Luke pats at Ashton's knee. "I doubt it's as serious as you think. I mean, you broke up, right? Maybe this is the clean break you both needed."

And really, Luke means the best. Luke always means the best—it's part of who he is. He's so sweet, always trying to see the best in everything. Always trying to make other people happy, even if he isn't happy himself. Luke thinks about every word he says before it ever comes out of his mouth, and that's why it's uncommon for Ashton to ever get mad at him. Ashton can probably count on one hand the number of times he's been genuinely upset or angry at Luke for something the younger boy has said or done.

But Ashton's already pissed. At the world, at Michael, and coincidentally, now at Luke.

"Valentine's Day is in less than a fucking week, Luke." Ashton snaps, shooting up off the couch. "We always try to work things out, every time. So why would he do that to me, huh? Why now?"

Luke's bottom lip quivers, and he looks away, down at the rim of his bottle. Across the room, Calum makes a disgruntled noise, setting his beer down loudly on the end table beside him.

"Ashton, that's about enough. It's not Luke's fault that Michael's being an ass, okay?" The dark haired boy warns, and Ashton sighs, muttering out an apology. Luke nods, accepting it, but he still seems skittish when Ashton walks past him in order to sit down on the third step of their staircase.

"I just don't understand, you know? The fight was only a week ago, how could he just...it's not like he doesn't know me. It's not like one fight erased an entire relationship." He can't deny how defeated he sounds, and he feels it, too. He's got his forehead resting in his hands, the beer bottle long forgotten beside him, and his head is aching behind his eyes. A painkiller would be amazing right now, he decides.

It's quiet in the room for several moments, only the whir of the heat kicking on and the occasional car passing by outside the duplex providing any noise. Normally his friends have a lot more to say than this, especially Luke, but even the blond boy seems to be having trouble coming up with words. When Ashton chances a glance up, the two are staring at each other, Calum with wide eyes and an obvious expression and Luke with pursed lips and threatening eyebrows.

"Don't." Luke says, his tone biting. "Don't you fucking dare, Hood."

Confused, Ashton lifts his head, glancing between his friends. It seems to be more tense than before, only now it's present with them, too, not just him.

"Why not, Luke? It's not our place to hide it. It's Ashton's life. It's not _ours_ , we can't just decide _for_ him." Calum spits back, walking over to their entertainment center and yanking open one of the drawers. When he starts shuffling around, Luke stands up, storming into the kitchen, and from the other room, Ashton can hear as the boy starts angrily slamming things around. Whatever the argument between the two of them was, he appears to have lost it.

"You're such a dick." Luke calls out, but Calum just rolls his eyes at his roommate, grabbing a manila envelope from the stacks of mail inside the drawer.

Ashton's still lost, confused about how the conversation has gotten to this point, but then Calum's walking over to him, holding out the envelope with an apologetic look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Irwie." Calum says softly, bringing out the old nickname he once created for Ashton back when they were still in secondary. These days, he saves it for the times when Ashton goes to him for advice, whenever Ashton needs a friend.

Evidently, this is one of those times.

Despite Luke's earlier irritation, Ashton can see the blond step into the archway between the living room and kitchen. He's leaned against the panels, watching Ashton with an expression the older boy can't place while he chews on that goddamn lip ring again.

Ashton's fingers start shaking, nervous, and he looks down at the envelope for the first time since he's taken it from Calum's hand. The return address isn't one that he recognizes, but it's clearly from some sort of company.

Inside the envelope is a card, small and yellow and definitely not large enough to deserve an envelope all on its own. Heaviness falls over the room the second that Ashton pulls the card out, and he hears Luke inhale sharply as Ashton flips it over so that the words printed on it are showing.

It reads:

_'To whom it may concern—_

**_MICHAEL CLIFFORD_** _has chosen to have **ASHTON IRWIN** erased from his memory. Please never mention their relationship to **MICHAEL** again_. _'_

For what feels like minutes, Ashton does nothing. At first, that's because he isn't feeling anything, isn't _thinking_ anything. He keeps reading the words on the card over and over, whispering them to himself as if that will make them untrue. Luke and Calum stay back, still watching cautiously as Ashton inches towards a breakdown.

"This isn't real." Ashton says, looking over to his friends. "This isn't—this doesn't _exist_. He can't _do_ that, it's not—it's not _real_."

Luke whimpers, and even from here, Ashton can see tears welling up in the boy's blue eyes. Calum turns towards the blond, reaches out for him, but Luke just backs up slightly, suggesting he doesn't want to be touched right now.

"You shouldn't have shown him." Luke says weakly. "We're not supposed to show him that."

Calum rubs at his temples, exasperated. "And what do you suggest I should have done instead, huh? Let him storm over to Michael's place? He'd just freak the guy out. Michael doesn't _remember_ him, Luke, it's better that Ashton knows."

" _Ashton_ is right here." He points out, and his friends both visibly relax a little, giving him apologetic half-smiles. Desperately, he waves the card around, realizing that he's going a bit insane right now. "Now what the fuck is this? How the hell can he just _erase_ me? What kind of joke is this?"

The blond boy shrugs his shoulders, taking a few steps closer. Ashton doesn't have it in him to push him away, so he lets the boy kneel across from him, lets Luke hold his free hand between the both of his.

"It's not a joke, Ashton." Luke says, his voice gentle and even and soothing. Calum's off to the side, biting his nails raw, but he watches their hands like it's calming him down despite that his own aren't being held. "None of us would ever make a joke about something like this."

Ashton shakes his head. "But this isn't—things like this don't exist. This doesn't happen in real life. This happens in the movies, to fake people. Not to me. Not to me and Mikey."

Luke chuckles, but it's watery, sad, so Ashton knows it's just the boy's way of keeping himself from caving. And that's how Ashton knows this isn't some fucked up joke, because it has Luke bent all out of shape. Luke's heart is _genuinely_ hurting for Ashton right now, and it wouldn't be if they'd made this up.

"I know." Luke whispers, stroking his thumb over the top of Ashton's hand. "But this is Michael we're talking about. He's...impulsive. He doesn't always think things through. He still loved you when he did this, Ashton, I just know it."

"Yeah, well. It doesn't much matter if he loved me or not if he went through with this, now does it?" Ashton comments, and nobody replies, because there isn't much else to say. Luke gives him a quick hug, though, since that's the one thing Luke always resorts to when he isn't sure what else to do.

And it feels nice, having someone wrap themselves around him in order to make him feel better, it does. But it's not the thing that Ashton needs right now. He doesn't need his best friends' sympathetic eyes or their constant apologies regarding a lost relationship that was never even theirs to begin with. They knew both Ashton and Michael for the entire two years they dated, sure, but they didn't _know_ Ashton and Michael. Didn't know the ins and outs, didn't know all the things they said and did behind closed doors. They didn't know how much they loved each other, or how badly they fought, or how frequently.

In hindsight, he would argue they know next to nothing about the real Ashton and Michael.

"I need to go." Ashton squeaks out, and Luke pulls away, nodding at him. "I'm sorry, I just. I need to be alone, I think."

"Okay, sure." The blond boy looks to Calum, motioning for him to grab Ashton's coat. "We'll walk you out?"

Ashton shakes his head, allowing Luke to help him to his feet. When the boy goes to help him towards the door, Ashton waves him off, muttering about being able to do it himself. Luke looks hesitant, but he lets him go, standing back when Ashton starts walking towards the foyer.

On the way, Calum hands him his coat, but he doesn't bother sliding into it. He's sort of numb to everything right now anyway; the cold shouldn't be any exception.

Calum pulls Ashton in, resting their foreheads together in the same way he's done since they became friends, and quietly, he says, "Don't do anything rash, Irwie, okay?"

And Ashton promises he won't, but he makes sure that his fingers are crossed behind his back anyway, just in case.

*********

When he gets back to his flat, he hurls Michael's present across the room, just to hear it shatter. He thinks it knocks something off of a shelf in its wake, but he's pretty sure that whatever it was belonged to Michael, too, so he isn't too upset. He's too heated about the card in his hand to be angry about much else right now.

He has the sentence memorized, keeps whispering it through clenched teeth as he walks around the apartment, shoving anything that he immediately recognizes as Michael's onto the floor. Sometimes the items break upon impact, but sometimes they fall unthreateningly, and that just makes Ashton even angrier.

He pours the contents of Michael's favorite beer down the kitchen sink, then dumps anything else he can find of the boy's from the fridge and cabinets in the trash. It was mostly Michael who insisted on the junk food—Ashton hasn't touched any of it since Michael left a week ago.

God, a fucking _week_. It's only been a week since Michael left, and this is already where they've ended up. A week, and Michael has deleted the last two years from his memory, Ashton is throwing out the boy's favorite foods, and he's standing here destroying anything and everything that remains in the apartment that reminds him of the boy.

He pauses in the kitchen, the last of Michael's beers in his hand, and he pulls out the card again. It's crumpled already from all the times he's moved it around in his hands within the hour or so that's passed since Calum gave it to him. Two years together, and this little piece of paper is telling him that Michael has chosen not to remember any of it anymore. Who could ever bring themselves to run a business that tore people apart like that?

Curiously, Ashton sets the beer down, using his free hand to pull the folded envelope out of his other pocket. The first line of the return address tells him that the card came from a Lacuna, INC., some company he's one hundred percent sure he's never heard of in his life. Evidently, they're based in London, so it's local, and Ashton can't believe a company that does something as phenomenal as mind erasure isn't famous worldwide. Maybe it's not ethical. He can't imagine it _would_ be.

Annoyed, Ashton slams the card and envelope onto the kitchen counter, grabbing the beer and opening it roughly. He chugs half of it on his way to the den, waking his computer and tapping his foot impatiently while he waits for it to boot up. The taste of the alcohol is bitter and watery, and Ashton's reminded again why it was _Michael’s_ favorite, not his. Michael didn't care about flavor, as long as he could get drunk on it. Ashton remembers thinking Michael was absolutely insane for subjecting himself to such an awful taste.

When his desktop finally comes to life, Ashton opens his browser, punching Lacuna into the search bar. He's pleasantly surprised to see that it's a legitimate clinic, with doctors on board and credentials off the charts. So it's not a question of ethics, then. In fact, the procedure is evidently all too real, and entirely respected, despite the absolute wildness of it.

Ashton really needs that painkiller.

The website has a number listed, and as Ashton picks up his phone to dial it, he's distantly very glad that he'd cheated his way around his promise to Calum. Even if crossing your fingers during a promise doesn't technically count anymore once you hit age twenty two, Ashton still feels a lot less guilty about making the rash decision he swore that he wouldn't.

*********

It's raining in London.

Which. That's a pretty common thing. Ashton doesn't take note of the fat droplets of rain pelting down all around him on account of the fact that it's uncommon, because it's not. It rains in London probably almost half of the year, accumulated. The fact that it's raining _today_ , of all days, is why Ashton takes note of it.

The fact that it's pouring cold and heavy raindrops all around him while he stands on the sidewalk in front of Lacuna, INC.'s building is some fucked up form of irony, he's sure of it. Or maybe not irony. Probably not irony. Ashton doesn't know, he never bothered to pay much attention in English.

(Michael would know the proper use of irony, probably. He always fancied the complexity of words and grammar in a way Ashton could never see the appeal of. Maybe that's another reason Ashton's finding himself here right now, the fact that they couldn't find a common ground in something as simple as words and language.)

His umbrella isn't doing much for him. His head and shoulders are dry, but that's about it, since his shoes and the bottoms of his jeans are uncomfortably damp with slosh from puddles on the sidewalk that he was too distracted to avoid walking straight through. His teeth won't stop chattering, and he'd left his good jacket in the backseat of Michael's car a couple nights before his boyfriend (ex-boyfriend? He wishes he knew where they stood) had angrily driven off in the middle of the night, so Ashton's stuck with a too-thin jumper and some gloves.

He's freezing, and yet that's not enough to make him put one foot in front of the other. That's not enough to make him climb the stone staircase in front of him and walk into the office that ended his entire life as he knew it.

They weren't still open when he'd called last night, which was understandable. Reflecting back on it, Ashton isn't sure why he ever thought that calling so late would be effective. But he'd made an appointment with the automated machine that answered him instead of a person, so now here he is, feeling lost and foolish. All that's left to do is go inside. It's not like things can possibly get any worse than this, right?

For probably the first time since he learned how to walk, Ashton consciously thinks about it as he puts one foot in front of the other. He chooses his steps meticulously, scared he'll just fall over if he misses a step or something, knowing he'd lack the motivation to get back up again if he did.

It's cozy and homely in Lacuna, INC.'s office, warm lighting all around the waiting area as a couple of candles burn away on the receptionist's desk and fill the room with the scent of vanilla and sugar. It feels like a disguise.

He has to battle with his umbrella to make it close once he's shut the office door behind him, and the middle aged lady in one of the waiting room chairs gives him a disgruntled once over. In her lap is a box of what look like dog toys, as well as some printed photos of the dog they must have belonged to. The woman looks nostalgic and yet miserable when he inspects her face closer, so he bites back a snap about what the hell she thinks she's looking at. Soon, she won't remember her deceased pet anymore, or any of the happy memories they shared. She doesn't deserve to be yelled at, he doesn't think.

Ashton approaches the receptionist's desk, struggling to return the gentle smile she offers him. She's typing on the keyboard of her desktop with coffin-filed acrylic nails, painted pastel pink to match the color of the bubble she's blowing. Her blonde hair is falling down around her shoulders, shielding some of her profile, but Ashton can see the phone receiver that's placed between her cheek and shoulder.

"I have an appointment." Ashton says simply, unsure what else he should supply her with.

Instead of responding right away, the receptionist holds up her perfectly manicured index finger, signaling for him to wait a moment. He just nods, flipping through a couple of pamphlets that are laid out on display.

The receptionist sucks in the bubble she's just blown, chewing quietly so that whoever's on the line doesn't hear her smacking her gum. "I understand that, ma'am, but the coupon expired already." She pauses, giving Ashton an apologetic look as she makes a face that suggests whoever she's speaking with is rambling away. He chuckles halfheartedly. "Of course you can come in to discuss it, but I have to inform you that the week of Valentine's Day is our busiest time of the year."

Ashton frowns, looking around the waiting room. There's only three people—Ashton and the receptionist and the woman erasing her dog—so he quirks an eyebrow at her curiously.

The person on the other line must finish up, because the receptionist rambles off a goodbye shortly after, setting the receiver back in its cradle as she folds her hands and smiles at Ashton more properly.

"Everyone wants to forget about their big ex during Valentine's Day, though it doesn't get slammed until a day or two beforehand. Makes it easier to get through the holiday, I imagine." She explains, chuckling lightly. "You said you had an appointment?"

Ashton nods, before reaching into his coat pocket and receiving the little yellow card Calum had given him last night. He slides it over the counter to her, and the moment she sees it, her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open just slightly. Tentatively, she picks the card up, inspecting it even though she clearly knows exactly what it is.

"Are you, um. Are you Michael?" She tries, biting her lip hopefully.

"Ashton." He corrects, and the receptionist sighs heavily.

She rubs at the bridge of her nose, setting the card down and typing something into her keyboard. After she finishes scanning her eyes over whatever it is she's pulled up, she looks back at Ashton, frowning deeply.

"Mr. Irwin, I can't apologize enough for this little mishap. You were never supposed—"

" _Mishap_?" Ashton interrupts. "My boyfriend erased me from his memory, right here, and it's just a little _mishap_ to you?"

The receptionist tucks a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, looking back down at the yellow card like it's going to disappear and make the whole thing go away. (It won't. Ashton tried that all night long without yielding any positive results.)

Sighing, she says, "Let me take you to Dr. Feldmann. I think he could explain this to you much more effectively than I can."

He doesn't know what to say, though he's also sort of afraid that his voice will crack embarrassingly if he attempts to speak at all, so he just presses his lips into a hard line and nods once. The receptionist picks up the receiver again, dialing a short number quickly and eyeing Ashton as she murmurs inaudibly down the line when whoever she's called picks up. A few moments later, she hangs up, then stands, waving for Ashton around to the door leading to what he assumes must be the back offices.

She leads him through the hallway silently, her subtle heels clicking on the hardwood flooring and echoing menacingly. Her black pencil skirt comes down to her knees, prompting her to take shorter steps, and each clack of the heels ricochets around in his brain and pushes him closer to insanity.

In the far back corner is an office with the name plate ‘ _Feldmann’_ outside of it, and she knocks once before opening the door and motioning for Ashton to follow her inside.

Dr. Feldmann is an older man, though Ashton suspects even the word older might be inaccurate. Really, Ashton thinks the man can't be all that many years apart from the middle aged woman outside in the waiting room, but he's frowning so hard that his worry lines are out, adding years and years to what could likely be a youthful face normally.

The receptionist starts to apologize for interrupting, but Feldmann just waves her off. "Don't be sorry, Ashley. Can I see it?" He asks her instead, and the receptionist—Ashley—nods, walking over to the large oak desk Feldmann's sitting behind and handing him the small yellow card. He thanks her afterwards, and she steps to the side, her eyes catching on Ashton's. She looks genuinely sympathetic. "Care to sit down, Mr. Irwin?"

Ashton shrugs, but he sits in one of the armchairs that face Feldmann from across his desk anyway. It's not very comfortable, but then again, maybe it is, and Ashton's just too upset to let himself relax into anything for too long.

"Alright, well. On behalf of everyone at Lacuna, I have to apologize for this." Feldmann says simply, laying the card face up on the desk. "You should never have seen this card. It wasn't meant for your eyes."

Ashton snorts without meaning to, and Feldmann looks hardly surprised by the reaction.

"Are you serious? He was my fucking _boyfriend_. Still would be, if it wasn't for this place. Why wouldn't this piece of paper announcing that he's decided to erase me, or whatever, be meant for my eyes?"

Feldmann scratches at his stubble, looking tired and utterly done. "I understand that you're upset, but you know I can't disclose any information regarding Mr. Clifford's erasure. I would encourage you not to pry into this."

Ashton laughs in disbelief, looking over at Ashley to see if she thinks that statement is as ridiculous as he does. Predictably, she just keeps looking sorry for him, and he decides he's done trying to get her on his side for now. "What the fuck do you _mean_ , 'don't pry'? This kind of thing doesn't _exist_. You can't just—you can't erase people from memories, that's not how it _works_."

Feldmann only nods, clasping his hands together over the desk as he leans his shoulders forward slightly. "I realize how this can all seem a bit unrealistic. It's definitely the kind of technology that could only be dreamed up in science fiction novels some years and years ago. But I assure you, the procedure is all too real. It's tedious, but mind erasure can be done. I'm admired around the world for what I'm able to do here."

Sure as anything, Ashton notes the various degrees and certifications Feldmann has hung around the office. It feels as if they're mocking Ashton, somehow. He's so out of his realm. He shouldn't be here. Feldmann is right—he shouldn't be prying.

Desperately, Ashton asks, "Can't you, like. Can't you just put me back in?" Instead of answering him, Feldmann and Ashley exchange a look, and Ashton sputters slightly as he continues. "I-into his memories, I mean. Can't you reverse this?"

Ashley clicks her tongue before tilting her head and giving him what is quite possibly the most heartbroken expression Ashton's ever seen. She doesn't say anything, though, just starts messing with the rings on her fingers as she looks between the two men in the room nervously.

"Son," Feldmann starts, "I'm afraid that's not how it works. It's full erasure. Mr. Clifford doesn't even know he's had the procedure done, so even if we _could_ put memories back in, he'd never know where this place is or who he's supposed to put back." He looks genuinely sorry, his worry and sadness showing heavily on his face. It gives Ashton some slight peace to know that Feldmann's at least somewhat of a human being, that at least the guy has some remorse for ruining Ashton's life. "In the event that the technology ever developed, it's unlikely the memories would ever be pure, anyway, since there's no way to store something like them. They'd be artificial. Fabricated, not real."

Bitterly, Ashton spits, "Artificial is better than nothing at all."

Feldmann takes it in stride, Ashton's harsh tone bouncing off of him easily. "Mr. Irwin, I'm afraid it simply can't be done."

It hurts. As if it didn't already feel like the end of the road the very moment Calum handed Ashton that card, Ashton realizes this is definitely it for sure. There's quite literally nothing else he can do to make this all better. Michael's gone and erased him out of spite, impulsively and recklessly, and now Ashton has to deal with the repercussions of it while Michael's so blissfully unaware. It's so unfair. He hates feeling so hopeless.

"I, um. I know you said you can't disclose anything about my boyfriend's procedure, but—I just, like." He breathes in deep, exhaling just as slowly. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, softer. Almost a whisper. "How was he? Did—did he seem like this was a decision he was happy with?"

He can see the way that Feldmann is battling with himself internally, his lips pressed into a hard line with his eyebrows furrowed. After a few moments of heavy silence, Feldmann says, "He was unhappy, Ashton. But I don't think it was because of what he was doing. I think it was because of what led him here."

 _I think he was unhappy because of you_ , is what Feldmann doesn't say, but it's what echoes around the room, obvious and hurtful. And as much as Ashton doesn't want to, he believes Feldmann.

When she realizes Ashton isn't going to say anything—or realizes Ashton is unable to form the words to say anything, whatever—Ashley adds, "Dr. Feldmann gives people the chance to start over. To be happy again. I mean, who cares if this is all wildly fantastical? If that's 'not how it's supposed to work'? Isn't it spectacular enough to just have the _chance_ to give yourself a happier ending?"

Ashton won't lie; a happier ending is something he'd welcome with open arms at this point. It can't get much worse for him, he doesn't think. His boyfriend left him a week ago, his boyfriend erased every single trace of Ashton from his memory, and now Ashton is just trying to do damage control. It's exhausting. More than that, though, it hurts like hell.

It hurts that Michael didn't even think twice before just absolutely deleting him from his whole life, like Ashton's just an old program that was taking up to much room on Michael's hard drive. Two years together, and Ashton feels like nothing. Michael erased him like nothing, and it's starting to feel like maybe everyone on the fucking planet knew about it besides Ashton himself.

The second hand on the large grandfather clock in Feldmann's office ticks away loudly. It feels as if it's counting down, but Ashton's not sure what towards. The tick is grating on him, though. He can't help but muse that it would've driven Michael absolutely insane—he always hated things like that. Things like a tireless tick of a clock, or the repeated bounce of Ashton's knee when they were driving.

Michael will never remember him again. Will never remember _them_ again. And honestly, Ashton can't imagine a world where it would be _easy_ to look at Michael as the boy stares back cluelessly, all while remembering how many times he's held him and kissed him and having to accept that he won't ever have it again.

Ashton sinks down in his seat, looking from Ashley to Feldmann. He shrugs sadly before whispering, "So how do we start?"

*********

It takes Ashton a couple of days to work up to starting the process of packing up all Michael's belongings. There's more hanging around than there probably should be, but obviously Michael had his memory wiped before he could make it back to their place to clean out any of his stuff. Which, if Ashton thinks about it, is just another testament to the fact that this breakup was never supposed to be so permanent.

They had a fight, that's _it_. They had fights _all_ the _time_. Michael wasn't supposed to leave in the middle of the night with a garbage bag full of clothes only to never return for the rest of his things. He was supposed to stay the night at Calum and Luke's, or a motel, or with one of his friends from work, maybe, and then come back in a day or two once they'd both calmed down. He doesn't even know where Michael's staying now. Ashton assumes he's probably living at his old place—the one Michael was never able to sell because of the shitty housing market but never stayed in anymore—since that's the last place Michael would remember living after the brain wipe.

Ashton's appointment with Feldmann is in just two days, though—the afternoon before Valentine's Day, he reminds himself bitterly—and he really needs to get a move on with the one thing Feldmann asked him to do. He's supposed to put anything associated with Michael into a bin or bag of some kind, so that the doctors can use it to 'map his brain' or whatever it is they've called it. Mostly Ashton's just glad he doesn't have to look at all this crap sitting around his flat anymore, a series of painful reminders of the love he's lost.

He already has two Hefty bags full, stuffed with Michael's clothes and trinkets and comics. Michael's vinyl collection is sitting in front of him now, four plastic crates filled to the brim and filed alphabetically by artist. Ashton's pretty sure this is the only thing Michael was ever organized about his entire life. With the exception of maybe his comic books.

Ashton remembers nights spent dancing around the unreasonably small living room/bedroom combo, serenading each other with the songs that came through the record player for hours on end. He remembers nights where he would cook for them, how he would smile to himself and hum along to whatever record Michael would put on just for him. He remembers lying in bed with the record player turned down low, with barely-audible notes playing throughout the room as Michael slept, pale limbs entwined with Ashton's while his fingers trailed through the dyed locks of Michael's hair.

He misses him so fucking _badly_.

For a moment, the urge to just snap all the vinyls is overwhelming. But he reminds himself that doing so would defeat the purpose of this, and how maybe the doctors won't be able to erase those painful memories from Ashton's brain unless he provides each and every record for them. That's a risk he doesn't want to take. He can't afford to remember those moments anymore.

Ashton's still absently trailing his fingertips along the spines of the vinyl covers when his front door swings open, banging against the doorstop and causing a racket. He spins quickly, knowing full well who he's _not_ going to see, but he's still slightly disappointed to find that it's not Michael crawling back to him with apologies.

Instead, it's Calum, and he looks _furious_.

"Mate." Ashton says simply. "You don't have a copy of my key just so you can barge in here whenever you feel like it." He turns back to the vinyls, wondering if he should save one or two, just in case he wants to listen to the music. It's not like he has to limit his musical taste back to what it was before Michael, right?

He doesn't have time to make his final decision, since Calum starts walking around the apartment, observing all the changes Ashton's made in the last two hours. He'll admit it looks bland—despite the brightly colored walls in the studio bedroom—with all of the pictures Michael had put up when he moved in taken back down.

"What the fuck is this, Ash?" Calum bites, picking up a comic book from the pile Ashton's started in the corner. He scans it before he obviously recognizes it as Michael's and tosses it back down, turning to look at Ashton with sad eyes. "What are you doing, Irwie?"

Ashton shrugs, irked enough that he decides to just slide the case of vinyls into the trash bag he's holding. At the sound of the records hitting against the hardwood floor through the bottom of the bag, both boys flinch.

"I'm making it even, I guess." Ashton states simply, like it's obvious. Newly inspired, Ashton keeps tossing Michael's vinyls into the bag.

"I know what this is. I watched Michael do this same thing." Calum just keeps frowning, motioning around the room desperately. "This isn't something you do on the basis of making it _even_ , Ashton. You're literally never gonna remember him again. You're gonna go right back to how you were two years ago, because you won't remember the way that that boy changed your life. For the better, I might add."

For now, Ashton chooses to ignore the comment Calum's made about watching Michael do this before—how he watched Michael go through this process and didn't do anything to stop him. Or maybe Calum did try to stop him, and Michael refused to hear it. That's more likely, probably. Hurts more, too.

He also knows that Calum's right. Going through with this memory wipe will mean that all of the bad is gone, but so will be all of the good. Ashton won't remember the good times anymore, or how Michael took him from being a dull and boring administrative office clerk to a more lively and colorful person who stopped spending his weekends cooped up in the safety of his living room. He doesn't necessarily _want_ to go back to being that guy, but it can't be all that bad if he's never going to remember what it's like to be the way he is now. All he'll know and remember is his boring office day job and lonely nights at home, and he'll probably dislike it in the back of his mind, but he'll never realize how much he hates it if he doesn't have those memories of Michael to remind him how fun life can be when you're not stuck behind a desk. And somehow, that's okay with Ashton. He's willing to make that sacrifice.

"Yeah, well," Ashton rebuts, "what's the point in remembering if every time I see him, he looks at me like I've never meant anything to him? What kind of torture is that, Cal, huh?"

Calum sighs, and he sounds believably saddened. "Just. _Please_ think it through. I don't want me and Luke to be the only ones left that remember how happy and in love you two were."

He doesn't stick around to hear what Ashton has to say, but Ashton doesn't have the words anyway. Silently, he watches as Calum starts back towards the door, and he doesn't even protest when Calum not-so-discreetly steals one of the framed photographs Ashton had taken down and pushed off to the side. He doesn't know which one it was that his best friend took, but Ashton never takes the time to sort through the pictures and find out.

*********

"Sit still, Ashton." Dr. Feldmann says for probably the fifth time in the last half hour. He's clearly getting frustrated, his tone short and snappy.

Ashton bites his lip, squirming one last time in the uncomfortable contraption of a chair they've got him sitting in. There's something like a dozen wires and monitors taped to his head and upper body, and he can't help but feel like an experiment more than a patient. "Sorry, I'm sorry." Ashton apologizes anyway.

Feldmann nods, turning back to the computer screen in front of him. He scans over the contents intensely, glasses low on the bridge of his nose as he reads whatever results are being mapped there. "Ashley, the next item." He says a few moments later, and his assistant nods, taking Michael's favorite vintage action figure off the table in front of Ashton and replacing it with one of the boy's vinyls.

Ashton chuckles, reaching out to touch the pads of his fingers over the cover of it. Franz Ferdinand. He remembers how much Michael used to love all their records. How embarrassed he'd get whenever Ashton sung their songs to him horribly off key.

"To yourself, Ashton, remember." Feldmann barks, and Ashton immediately sighs. He hadn't even noticed he was saying anything out loud.

They're trying to map his brain, is what they told him, by showing him objects of Michael's and locating the specific locations of his brain that the memories trigger activity in. At least, that's the watered down version of it. Ashton wouldn't have understood the science behind it if he tried, so he's just content to sit here and think about all the good memories with Michael he's had that are associated with these little mementos.

Ashley switches the vinyl out for one of Michael's comics, one of the editions that is still encased in its plastic because Michael swore it was too rare and priceless to take the protective sheet off of it. Ashton hadn't understood how a graphic novel could be so special, but he _did_ know how happy it made him to see Michael glowing the way he did whenever he spoke about the storylines in all the comics he collected. Ashton's surprised Michael didn't take all these with him the night he left, even if the younger boy _had_ intended to come back at some point. That’s how much he loved these novels.

"What happens to this stuff when we're done with all this?" Ashton asks. "Do you just throw it away?"

Dr. Feldmann shakes his head, clicking something on the monitor with his mouse. "All of it goes to your listed primary contact. Someone you trust to take care of the items in the best way they see fit. Now please, for the love of God, Ashton, sit still."

Ashton rolls his eyes, looking back down at the comic. His lips twitch into a frown when he remembers some of the stupid arguments they used to have about these things. How Ashton used to reprimand Michael because he was going on twenty years old and was still using up tons of his free time down at the comic book store, spending money they didn't have on a collection that he was never going to do anything with besides allow it to take up space in their apartment that was already too small. Ashton remembers how he'd called Michael a child during most of those fights, despite knowing that having a graphic novel collection isn't actually an exclusively childlike thing to do. How he'd said it simply to hurt the boy he loved, because he knew it would cut the deepest and knew he would come out on top of an argument for once if he did.

Now, he regrets every single time he's ever sunk down to that level. Ashton's the child, for being so unnecessarily petty. They loved each other. They should never have tried to cause each other as much pain as they did.

"That's very good, Ashton," Feldmann says suddenly, snapping Ashton out of his daze. "Really healthy activity on that one." He nods to Ashley, and the blonde tosses the comic book back into the bag before replacing it with Michael's favorite, tattered old sweater.

Ashton frowns the second it's placed in front of him, closing his eyes to it. He never really wasted much of his time on looking at this sweater, despite that it was Michael's absolute favorite, so it's easier to remember if instead, he breathes in deep, just like he used to, allowing the lingering scent of Michael's cologne on the clothing to overwhelm his senses. That, he's accustomed to. That, he spent a lot of time doing—breathing in Michael's smell every time the younger boy curled into him while wearing this damn sweater. Ashton remembers how the sleeves used to come down past Michael's hands, how he could curl them up in his fists to make little sweater paws. He _especially_ remembers the way that Michael would cover his mouth with the sleeves drawn down over his palms, muffling his weak moans and gasps into them whenever Michael would ride him in the really early morning and they had to keep it down for the sake of their neighbors.

"You're getting the hang of this now." Ashley says to him softly, patting Ashton's hand encouragingly.

Successfully recollecting all the memories of Michael attached to these items with the ultimate goal of erasing each and every one of them doesn't feel like something Ashton should be praised for, if he's honest. In fact, he mostly feels super shitty about it. Like he owes Michael an apology, even though Michael did it to him first.

He wonders if Michael had any second thoughts about erasing Ashton. If he had any doubt that it was the right thing.

He doesn't say anything, though, just gives Ashley a tight smile and does his best to come up with vivid memories of every item she places on the table in front of him for the next hour. By the end of it, he's exhausted, a sting behind his tired eyes that makes it feel as if he's been crying for ages, or like he's going to break down into tears at any moment now. He supposes it's entirely likely that he might.

They leave him alone, afterwards. Once they've unhooked him from the monitors and repacked up all of Michael's things, Ashley and Feldmann step out of the lab, Ashley whispering that when he's ready, they'll be in Feldmann's office for the final consultation.

But Ashton's having a hard time getting the guts to move out of his chair. It feels like he's glued down, his body limp and weak. He knows that as soon as he goes down the hall to Feldmann's office, there won't be anything separating him from the reality of the situation anymore. As soon as he signs those final documents that they'll inevitably throw at him, on top of the several dozen he's already had to sign, it's going to be _real_.

It should be easy to march down that hall. He should _want_ to erase Michael, for all the shit the younger boy has put him through, even _before_ Michael erased him. And deep down, he does want to. Because it _would_ be easier, if he didn't have to live with the torturous reminders. But part of him thinks he'll live with a fractured heart for the rest of his life if he goes through with this and cuts Michael out of it forever, and he won't even be able to understand _why_ it hurts so bad.

What gives him the push to get out his chair and walk down to Dr. Feldmann's office is the knowledge of a slim possibility that maybe, just maybe, Ashton can be happy some other way. That maybe, he can be happy without Michael, someday.

*********

Ashton hasn't cried this hard in years.

He remembers crying at little things, like a sad ending to a movie, or waking up after a nightmare where something terrible happened to someone he loved. But Ashton hasn't cried like _this_ for a hell of a long time.

He's thankful that it's dark outside his car, or else it would be a lot easier for anyone walking by to see how much of a mess he is right now. Luckily, the only light on the street is provided from a dim streetlamp, but even that's too far away from him to be of any real help to passerbys. So he's content to sit in the driver's seat of his crappy car, beating on the steering wheel as sobs wrack his body uncontrollably. He can't even imagine how horrid he must look right now.

There's a shopping bag in the passenger seat next to him, filled with some groceries he needed anyways, but tossed in among the food and booze is also a prescription bag from Lacuna's in-clinic pharmacy. _Take one of the pills before bed_ , Feldmann had instructed him, earlier that afternoon. _It'll knock you out cold for at least twelve hours. Makes it easier for our technicians to do the brain swipe while you sleep tonight._

The thing is, Ashton knows this is it. More than any of the other times that he's thought so before, this is it. After tonight, he's not going to remember the love of his life anymore. And what's even scarier is that he's still not entirely sure if that's what he really wants.

He forces himself to settle down, closing his eyes and breathing deep until everything has slowed back to normal. A quick glance in his rearview mirror tells him his eyes are still red, but are otherwise passable, so he expels a somewhat shaky sigh and grabs his grocery bag, stepping out of the car and onto the sidewalk.

It's cold outside, frosty wind biting at his cheeks, and Ashton's distantly happy about it because maybe his disheveled state and red face could be played off as the fault of the frigid air rather than his teetering emotional state.

He welcomes the warmth that envelops him once he steps into the lobby of his apartment building, but has to bite his tongue when he sees his neighbor at the mailbox. Honestly, Ashton likes Rian just fine, he really does. He thinks the guy and his fiancée are good, respectable people. But Rian loves to talk, and this is the kind of night where Ashton _really_ doesn't want to talk.

Readjusting his hold on the plastic bag, Ashton steps towards the mailbox, pulling out his keys and unlocking the small door with his assigned number on it. For a moment, he thinks Rian isn't going to say anything, but Ashton isn't so lucky.

"Only person who bothers to get me valentines these days is Cass. Not even my mother sends 'em anymore." Rian chuckles, bumping Ashton's bicep with his elbow. Ashton forces himself to smile and glance over at his neighbor, but he has to repress a wince once he notices the official envelope from Lacuna underneath one of Rian's bills. Inside that envelope is going to be a tiny yellow card—identical to the one Calum had showed Ashton—addressed to Rian and his fiancée Cassadee, informing them of the fact that Ashton's erased Michael from his memory. It's going to tell them never to mention Michael to Ashton again, starting tomorrow morning. When Ashton will wake up with no recollection of the boy he loved. Loves.

"Speaking of, do you and Michael have any Valentine's Day plans?" Rian asks.

Ashton frowns, shaking his head and grabbing the couple of envelopes in his mailbox. He doesn't bother telling his neighbor that he and Michael technically broke up, just shuts and locks the small door once again, heading for the stairway that leads to the second floor of the building.

"You'd better make a reservation somewhere!" Rian calls after him, a smile in his voice. "Michael'd kill ya if you were the only guy in all of London without one!" And he's right. If they were still together, Michael would have Ashton's head for not planning a Valentine's Day date for them.

Ashton just waves him off, muttering something about having to get to bed because he has to wake up early. Rian doesn't press any further, just lets him go, and Ashton breathes out a sigh of relief as soon as he's safely inside his own flat, the door shut tightly behind him.

It's with shaky hands that Ashton starts putting away the couple of things he bought from the store, throwing all the beers in the fridge with the exception of one, which he wraps in a damp paper towel and tosses in the freezer for a couple minutes so it'll get colder faster. While he's waiting for it to chill, he sorts through his small stack of mail. Just to make sure there's nothing in any of the envelopes that pertains to Michael, he opens them up and reads them all, despite that he'd really rather not do so tonight. There's nothing about Michael, though, so he's safe from waking up tomorrow and being confused when he finds letters addressed to a boy he'll technically have never met.

When the beer is finally cold, Ashton takes it out of the freezer, popping off the cap and taking a long swig. The alcohol warms his veins a bit, makes him feel like there's fire licking at his insides, and that's the kind of feeling Ashton needs right now. He just needs to feel something other than empty and numb right now.

As soon as the clock strikes eight, Ashton pulls out the prescription bag and dumps out its contents. All that's in it is a small pack, containing two of the sleeping pills. Sighing, he opens one, popping it into his mouth and washing it down with a swig of beer. Probably it's not the healthiest mix, but Ashton doesn't really care.

While he waits for the pill to kick in, he sets up the pull out bed in the living room. He's only halfway back to his bed after taking a break to change into his pajamas in the bathroom when he really starts feeling it, his limbs getting heavy and eyelids falling shut much more quickly than Ashton can take the steps that he needs to.

He's not going to make it to the bed, he realizes. The pill is strong, and Ashton's undoubtedly sure he's going to faint in the middle of the floor, and the technicians waiting in their official van outside to come in and do the brain wipe are going to have to lift him up into his bed. Embarrassing.

Before he forgets, Ashton reaches out, flicking the light switch off and bathing his apartment in total darkness.

His vision goes blurry, and just before he passes out, Ashton sees Michael's face flash behind his eyelids. Michael, smiling softly and bathed in golden sunlight, just like he was on the last morning that Ashton was truly happy. The morning before Michael left.

As he quite literally falls into sleep, he tries not to think about how those brief seconds of imagining Michael's radiant smile are the last time he'll ever consciously recognize the love of his life.

 

**ACT TWO**

 

He meets Michael for the very first time in Camber Sands, two hours outside of London.

Ashton hadn't even really wanted to go. He had put up a relatively big fight when Calum insisted Ashton accompany him and Luke on their big road trip down to East Sussex for some beach party with people Ashton didn't know. He'd insisted it was too cold for the beach, but Calum had simply rolled his eyes and told him to just bring a heavy coat, if that's what he was worried about.

The trip down is fun, but only because Ashton actually enjoys interacting with Luke and Calum. They were all friends back in secondary, so it's effortless and easy to hang out with them. It doesn't physically drain him to spend hours on end with his two best friends, like it does to spend even five minutes with other people he doesn't know as well.

As expected, the moment they pull up to the beach and park among the dozens of other cars, Calum and Luke are off to the races. He offers to stay behind and grab the cooler filled with booze that they'd brought along, but he's pretty sure they don't even hear him, already flagging down friends and acquaintances of theirs from work or school or neighboring houses as they rush down the old wooden stairs and into the sand.

It's just as cold as Ashton knew it would be, so he grumbles about it under his breath the whole time he's sliding into his coat. The wind doesn't help, and even though it's just a slight breeze, it makes his curls flutter around his face annoyingly, and he continues brushing stray hairs out of his eyes as he struggles to manhandle the cooler down onto the beach near all the other tables of food that the partygoers have set up.

At some point, Luke meanders his way over to the picnic tables, clapping Ashton on the shoulder as he reaches around for a beer. He forces Ashton to join him as he walks around the beach again, introducing Ashton to everyone that they stop to socialize with. It helps in making him feel included, but it also makes him sort of tired, so when Luke's attention and watchful eye slips away from him for even a second too long, Ashton dips back over to the food, filling up a plate with a little bit of everything before he grabs a beer of his own and makes his way over to the rickety stairs, sitting down away from all the noise so that he can eat in relative peace.

From over here, all Ashton can hear are the seagulls, distant chatter of the crowd, and the tide rolling in. That's the way he likes it. He's been on his own for years—hasn't dated anyone seriously since secondary, probably—so it's easier to just do things by himself, even if he looks lonely to other people.

"Hey, dude." Someone interrupts, plopping themselves down beside him. There's still a railing separating them, but it's barely there, so it's almost like they're sitting directly next to each other.

Ashton coughs. "Um."

The boy next to him has lime green hair, but Ashton can only vaguely decipher that since it's mostly all stuffed under a beanie. The color matches his eyes almost perfectly, stands out even more obviously with all of the boy's pale skin. He looks young.

"I saw you sitting over here by yourself." The green haired boy clarifies, but only barely. "I was like, 'oh thank god. Another human besides me who doesn't know how to socially interact.'" He waves his hand around theatrically when he imitates his inner monologue, and Ashton cracks a hint of a smile.

"Yeah. I guess I never really know what to say at these kinds of things." Ashton explains, poking his fork around at some of the coleslaw on his plate. It's a little too chilly outside for the salad—what with the overcast sky and foggy beach—but he'd grabbed some anyway. "I don't even know anyone, anyway. My friends insisted I come along."

The boy nods. "Luke and Calum, right?" When Ashton gives him a confused expression, he chuckles and elaborates. "They invited me, too. I used to work with Luke at the record store before he graduated. Don't know much about Calum, though. Just that he's Luke's roommate. Can I have some of your fries?"

Before Ashton can answer, the boy adjusts his posture, leaning over the railing to grab a couple fries off of Ashton's plate. Ashton's jaw drops slightly, hanging on a protest, but nothing is really able to come out. Instead, he finds himself fighting back a smirk.

"I'm Michael, by the way." The boy says, reaching over the railing again with his other hand open for a shake. Ashton chuckles, shaking Michael's hand once before he goes back to poking at his food. As Michael bites into a fry he'd stolen, a particularly strong gust of wind blows his unzipped jacket open slightly, and Ashton bites his lip to avoid grinning stupidly when he sees a sliver of the vintage Deadpool t-shirt Michael's wearing underneath it.

"I'm Ashton."

Michael smiles over at him, and this time, Ashton can't help but to smile back. "Nice to meet you, Ashton."

They fall back into silence after that, Michael occasionally reaching over to not-so-subtly steal more food from Ashton's plate. Ashton never says anything, though. He even offers to share his beer once he's cracked it open, which Michael happily accepts, chugging half of the beverage down in one go before halfheartedly apologizing about it. There's a continuous sparkle in his green eyes, and dare he say it, Ashton likes to think it gets a little brighter whenever Michael looks at him directly.

"I like your hair." Ashton blurts suddenly. He hates the desperate way it sounds, so mundane and smalltalk-ish, but Michael doesn't seem to mind.

"Don't get too attached." Michael jokes, brushing his fingers through the little bit of green fringe that's poking out of the beanie. "I change the color almost as fast as I change my mood. People say it's like my personality comes in the form of a dye."

Ashton shrugs. "Oh, I don't think that about you. I doubt that very much."

Michael whirls on him then, one eyebrow raised in a way that looks almost aggressive. Ashton's not sure what he's done wrong, but he doesn't like the way Michael's staring at him, all accusing. "Why wouldn't you think that about me? It's not like you know me."

"I, um." Ashton stutters. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to be nice, I guess."

Michael nods once, situating himself again on the stair he's taken up residence on. "You don't have to be nice to me. I hate being nice just because you're afraid to offend someone, you know? Like, why dance around people's feelings when you first meet them if you intend to get to know them better later on? Then it just hurts more when you upset them down the road."

Distantly, Ashton wonders what kind of asshole hurt Michael enough to give him that outlook on life. Instead of saying anything about it, he just nods and pretends to agree.

It's hardly quiet for another minute before Michael says, "I like your name. What does it mean?"

Ashton frowns, furrowing his eyebrows as he tries to think about it. He comes up empty. "Not sure what it means. Never bothered to look into it." Michael gasps at that answer, taking a chicken wing off of Ashton's plate. He chews noisily, and Ashton clenches his jaw at the sound.

"Mine means 'who is like god', or 'close to god'." Michael says, with his mouth still mostly full.

"That's a lot to live up to." Ashton mutters. He hadn't really meant it as a joke, but Michael laughs anyway, joyful and bright and astonishing.

"Yeah. I suppose it is." Michael notes. "Maybe I'm the God of Record Stores. Guarding all the mixtapes and vinyls that you could ever dream of."

Ashton laughs lightly, setting his plate down close to Michael so that the boy can graze off of it more freely. With his hands now free, Ashton rubs them together, trying to warm them up from the bite of the cold. He wishes he'd brought gloves.

"I like your name, too." Ashton says after a couple beats. "Always makes me think of that Franz Ferdinand song. You know the one?"

He doesn't know why he says it. He doesn't even particularly love the band—or the song, really—he just knows it because Luke would sometimes play the album in his car stereo when he started really getting into music when they were all sixteen. It's the only song about a Michael that Ashton's ever heard, so it's always stuck with him. Even though Ashton feels stupid after saying it, Michael grins so hard his eyes get all squinty, and a blush comes creeping to his cheeks. "I've got the album on vinyl." He says. "'Course I know the one."

Ashton grins, leaning in close as he singsongs from memory, "So come and dance with me, Michael."

"Don't make jokes about my name." Michael pouts, but there's still a smile in his eyes, and when Ashton keeps humming the song, Michael leans in closer to fill what's left of the gap.

They stay on those stairs for hours.

Later, when the sun has long since gone down and Ashton's in the backseat of Calum's car on the drive back to London, Luke turns around over the console and asks him about the boy he saw Ashton getting friendly with. Ashton only blushes, shoving Luke away before he turns to stare out the window, wondering if tomorrow is too early to see Michael again.

*********

A week goes by before Ashton finally gets the nerve to go see Michael again. He's been fighting with himself about it every day since the beach, looking at the phone number and address of the record store that Michael had written down on a napkin from the picnic table a couple hours into their conversation as frequently as he can throughout the day.

In the end, it's Luke that encourages Ashton to man up and go down to the shop.

It's not a big record shop, nor is it all that fancy. He used to drop Luke off here for work sometimes back in secondary, when Luke needed some extra cash to save up for a car of his own. Calum hadn't worked back then, save for some yard work and paper routes around town during the summer months. Luke had always offered to hook the two of them up with a job at the store, though, and Ashton wonders about how if maybe he had accepted that offer, he and Michael would've been able to get to know each other a lot earlier in life.

When he walks in, he's greeted by the smell of dust and smoke. The cashier at the register welcomes him when the little chime goes off to signify someone's entered the store, and Ashton waves back shyly, already craning his neck in search of a mop of green hair.

He finds Michael in the aisle for A-G, only his hair isn't green anymore. Instead, it's a vibrant blue, and it isn't suppressed by a hat of any kind this time around. He's still wearing an old school, faded graphic t-shirt, but Ashton isn't sure what it's referencing, since it's not featuring a super mainstream superhero or anything. The boy is restocking CDs, the cart beside him half full with merchandise that needs to be put back on the shelves.

Giddy, Ashton approaches him, bracing his hands on the edge of the cart and hopping on, his feet perched on the bottom rack of it. The cart wobbles, unsteady, and Michael whips his head to lecture whoever's climbing all over store property. When he sees it's only Ashton, he smirks, pulling at the cart slightly so Ashton's forced to clamber off of it and back onto solid ground.

"Fancy seeing you here." Michael says, scooting down a row and grabbing some misplaced albums from off the shelf. "I was beginning to think you were never gonna reach out."

Ashton bites his tongue, internally reprimanding himself for being so wishy-washy about manning up and coming in here. He should've just gone for it right away. "I liked spending time with you."

Michael coos, pausing his work momentarily in order to reach out and flick Ashton's nose sweetly with his thumb. "I liked spending time with you, too." He adds, grabbing his next stack of CDs.

"I was hoping I could take you to dinner, or something?" Ashton blurts before he can help it. It's what he came here to ask, but he still feels lightheaded once he gets it out in the open like that.

Michael stops for a second, his whole body halting movement. Instantly, Ashton feels like an idiot. "Well, I don't know." Michael starts, shrugging. "I mean, arguably, I hardly know anything about you."

Ashton wants to ask if all those hours they spent talking and laughing together on the beach last week meant nothing, if the way Michael had lingered so near to his mouth that it left Ashton physically _aching_ for a kiss meant nothing. If Ashton had royally misinterpreted _all_ of it.

Instead, he says, "I don't—I'm sorry. I just really enjoyed being around you, is all. It felt really nice. I haven't felt that way about a person I just met in a really long time."

It's still not the right response, probably, since Michael doesn't even look at him when he resumes stacking the albums, slightly more forcefully this time.

"Alright, look." Michael says after a long pause of silence. He turns, one hand on the cart and the other holding on to the shelf beside him. "Too many people think that I'm going to be this refreshing change in their life, or something, just because I'm a little opinionated and like to have fun. I'm not looking to fix anybody, Ashton. I'm not some accessory. I'm not going to _complete you_ , or whatever. So save it with the whole 'I haven't felt this way in so long' thing."

Ashton swallows dryly. He's vaguely aware of the fact that he nods once, and he's _embarrassed_ , but he keeps it from showing for as long as he can. When he gets out to his car again, _that’s_ when he'll allow himself to let out a shaky breath and go all red in the face. For now, he tries to pretend that Michael's rejection doesn't sting something fierce.

Michael leafs through a couple of vinyls on the shelf opposite to where they're standing before he finds what he was looking for, walking back over and handing it to Ashton. Ashton looks down at it, and he laughs when he recognizes the cover as Franz Ferdinand's self titled. The album they'd joked about on the beach last week when they met.

Ashton looks back up, and Michael's stepped significantly closer than he was before. "You can still take me out, though." Michael says, trying not to smile. Before he quickly presses a kiss to the corner of Ashton's mouth, Michael snorts, "If you'll mind that horribly timed song reference, fuck, sorry." They're both blushing when Michael pulls away, and then Michael mutters something about having to get back to work, but that Ashton should tell the cashier up front that Michael's got the vinyl covered for him.

Ashton's still smiling stupidly in the middle of the aisle when Michael rounds the corner and continues working in the next aisle over. He looks back down at the gift Michael's given him, but his lips twitch downward when he watches the words on the vinyl sleeve start to fade away.

He blinks multiple times, but sure enough, the cover art eventually fades until there's nothing left but a blank white square in his hands. Ashton spins, looking at the racks of CDs and vinyls surrounding him in the aisle. Some of them are already completely white, but he watches as dozens more start fading right before his eyes. Until the shelves are full of blank white cases, and Ashton can't remember what any of them used to say.

It's more than bizarre, but he's not immediately alarmed by it, for whatever reason. It just doesn't feel like it's supposed to be happening right _now_. Like it doesn't fit in this particular moment.

He frowns, and he leaves the shop.

*********

For their first official date, Michael makes Ashton take him to the lake. It's frozen this time of year, which makes Ashton wonder what the point of going down to the lake would be, since they can't exactly swim in it, but it's too cold outside for that anyway, even if the lake _weren’t_ frozen over.

He hates how cute Michael looks tonight, with his warm boots on instead of his usual skate shoes, and a long wool coat that's buttoned up to his neck and makes him look even smaller than Ashton already thought he was. The earmuffs he's adorning are fluffier than his blue hair, and whenever Michael adjusts them with his mitten covered hands, Ashton dies a little more inside.

They have to park nearly half a mile away from the actual lake itself, since it's hidden within the clearing of a forest. Ashton expects Michael to complain the whole walk, since it's cold outside and complaining seems like it would be in Michael's nature, but he doesn't. Instead, Michael eagerly grabs Ashton's hand, leading the way through the trees and down the marked path. It's almost nine o'clock at night, and it's too dark to really see where they're going, but Michael insists he can get them there with his eyes closed, let alone with the aid of his phone's flashlight.

"Come on. It's just through here." Michael says, tugging on Ashton's sleeve. He weaves them through a couple of dense branches, and then sure enough, the forest opens up around the lake, eerily still and silent with the sheet of ice resting over the top of it.

Michael sighs happily, turning to look up at Ashton with sparkling eyes. His mouth is spread into a wide grin, lips pale pink tonight instead of their usual vibrant red. When the boy lets out a soft laugh, Ashton can see his breath fanning out in front of him.

"Are you ready?" Michael asks.

Ashton frowns. "Am I ready for what?"

The blue haired boy laughs again, so startlingly loud that it ricochets around the vast spread of the clearing in front of them. Michael doesn't say anything after that, just waves Ashton along as he starts walking out towards the lake. Frosty ground cracks and crinkles below him, the occasional twig snapping as he goes, and Ashton wearily tries to recreate Michael's footsteps as he follows.

When Michael pats his feet out over the ice, testing the thickness of it, Ashton pauses, jaw opening and closing with a warning he can't seem to formulate.

"What are you doing?" Ashton hisses, looking around nervously as if they're going to get caught, or as if this is something they could get in trouble for. This isn't even illegal, probably. "You're going to fall through."

Michael snorts. "I'm not gonna fall through." As if to prove that point, he steps further out onto the lake. The ice doesn't crack or make any sounds of protest, so Michael chuckles, opening his arms and giving Ashton jazz hands. "Ta-da! See? It's fine. Get out here."

Ashton chews on his lip, but nods, carefully choosing his steps as he inches towards the lake. When he's almost there, Michael extends a hand, an encouraging smile on his face as he urges Ashton along. Ashton takes his hand, allowing the boy to steady him when he slips just slightly on the slippery ground.

"You ever been ice skating?" Michael asks, clinging to Ashton's hand as they start venturing further out over the lake. Ashton keeps looking and listening for signs of the ice giving in to their weight, but so far there's nothing.

"No." Ashton answers.

Michael shrugs. "Yeah, me either."

Ashton loses his footing, sliding a few terrifying inches towards what he assumes is going to be his inevitable death. He lets out a shriek, and Michael laughs so hard he almost falls over, his grip on Ashton's arm getting firmer so that Ashton never actually hits the ground.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Ashton asks, breathing heavy as he laces his fingers with Michael's desperately.

Michael slides around him so that they're face to face, looking at Ashton through his fringe as he smiles. "I'm sure. I promise I'm not trying to get either of us killed on our first date." He winks when he says the last two words, pushing up on his toes to brush his frigid nose against Ashton's. He's so pale underneath the moonlight. Ashton can't believe how badly he wants to kiss him here.

Before Ashton can decide whether right-this-very-second is a good time to plant one on him, Michael steps back, reassuring himself of his footing before he lowers himself down to a sitting position. He flinches, presumably at the chill of the ice through his clothes, and then lies down onto his back.

"Lay down with me." Michael insists, patting the empty space next to him with one of his mittens.

Ashton's more than a little unsteady without Michael's body there to support him, so he's wobbly and ungraceful about it, but he manages to fulfill Michael's request. The ice is just as cold against his skin through his clothes as he imagined it would be, but Michael curling into him as soon as he lies down is a welcome distraction.

"It's pretty out here." Ashton murmurs, and Michael hums in agreement. He means it, too. The forest surrounding them is so quiet and peaceful right now. He can't hear anything besides the subtle howl of the wind and Michael's even breathing that he can also feel against his neck and shoulder. The stars are way more visible here than they ever are in the middle of the city, and Ashton's eyes dance along them in wonderment.

Michael follows Ashton's eyes up to the sky, and when Ashton sneaks a glance over at him, he notices the blue haired boy's eyebrows furrowed and his mouth in a concentrated frown. Just when Ashton's about to ask what's wrong, his emerald eyes go wide in astonishment, and he rolls his head over to look at Ashton directly.

"Hey, show me the constellations that you know!" Michael muses, smiling hard.

Ashton laughs, but he agrees, looking back up and squinting in order to pick out some of the patterns in the stars. He can feel Michael's eyes on him instead of the sky, but he resists the urge to pick on him for that.

It's hard to pick the patterns out, and honestly, he's not sure which ones are even supposed to be visible in the sky right now. He knows they change relatively constantly, but he's not, like, an astronomer. He doesn't remember which constellations are actually able to be seen in London during winter.

Ashton just hopes that Michael doesn't know any better as he bullshits, "There, that's Gemini."

Michael looks up to the sky instantly, amazed. "Really? Where? Show me."

Ashton places his hand over Michael's, pointing with his index finger so that Michael can easily follow it along. "Start here. Those two bright stars are the heads of the twins." He moves his finger along, connecting the dots, and Michael squints in concentration. "See their bodies?"

Michael pouts. "I don't see anything but a bunch of dots."

Ashton chuckles, and he retraces the constellation again, but slower this time. "There. Gemini."

Michael keeps focusing, like he's trying his very best to see it. Eventually he blows out a huff of air, turning to look at Ashton with narrowed eyes. "Are you totally full of shit right now?"

Ashton laughs, but nods. "Honestly, probably. I've only seen Gemini once, in a textbook."

"You're such a dick." Michael says, shoving at his shoulder weakly, but he's smiling, eyes crinkling as he tries (and fails) to seem upset about being mostly successfully convinced. "Ash, how old are you?"

Ashton looks to the side, raising an eyebrow. Michael's looking right back at him, nothing but genuine curiosity on his face. He's an anomaly. Ashton will never understand him, probably.

"That's a random question." Ashton observes. "I'm twenty. Twenty one in July."

Michael nods once. "You act a lot older than that, you know. You, like, frown so much when you think nobody's looking. Why is that?"

Ashton sucks in his lower lip, suddenly self conscious about it. He casts his eyes down further, away from Michael's insistent ones. "I don't know."

Michael huffs, like that's not good enough. Ashton's quickly learning that he doesn't like lack of clarity. 'I don't know' isn't an answer Michael seems to like.

"Are you unhappy, Ashton?"

It's a simple question, but Ashton hasn't ever been asked it before. Nobody's really ever thought to bother, and he's never really considered himself to be anything but comfortable. But maybe that's the kicker. Maybe being comfortable and being _happy_ aren't anywhere close to the same thing.

"I don't think I'm unhappy, no." Ashton says honestly. "I think I could be happier, though, sure. Everyone could stand to be happier, probably."

Michael thinks that response over, nodding slowly the longer that it cooks in that beautiful brain of his.

"What about you?" Ashton redirects. "Are _you_ happy?"

Michael hums. "Yeah, I'm happy."

They fall back into silence, and Ashton is starting to really appreciate the easy periods of quiet that continuously find him and Michael. The silences never feel uncomfortable or awkward, with him. Instead, it feels relaxing, to just shut up and enjoy a moment with somebody. He likes Michael an awful lot.

"What about right now?" Michael interrupts. "Are you happy right now?"

Ashton breathes out a laugh, shaking his head yes. "I am."

Michael grins. "How happy?"

Ashton rolls over onto his side, so that he and Michael are more properly face to face. Michael's hand is resting easily on Ashton's waist, fingers twitching inside his mittens like he wants to touch just a little more than he already is.

With a stupid smile still on his face, Ashton says, "I could _die_ right now, Mike, and I'd die the happiest I've been in a long time. _That’s_ how happy I am."

Michael giggles, cupping Ashton's cheeks in between his warm mitten covered hands. Their lips are still chilly when they meet for the very first time, but the fireworks that the touch sets off makes Ashton feel spectacularly warm, despite all of the ice and snow.

*********

Ashton's life changes drastically for the better six months after that night on the frozen lake, while he's sitting on Michael's bed. The cold weather has come and gone, and since that night, they've spent several days down at that same lake, now able to swim in it and have picnics on the shore instead of precariously walking out onto the ice.

It's summer in London, and Michael has the air conditioning up and a couple of box fans going in the open windows to help clear up the humidity that's slowly been eating away at them for days now. They're sprawled over the comforter in their underwear, an array of Chinese takeout boxes surrounding them, and an old episode of Family Fortunes is playing on the cheap television atop Michael's dresser. The volume is down too low for Ashton to hear over his chewing, but Michael seems to be having no issues, since he repeatedly calls out answers to the game show's questions and then grumbles adorably when he finds out he's gotten them wrong.

The best part about when it happens is that Ashton does literally nothing to prompt it. He's just continuing to sit there, legs tucked up under himself as he digs around in his box of kung pao chicken, hunting with his chopsticks for the sliced carrot he'd accidentally dropped back in. The people on TV are still droning on, the sound of staticky studio audience laughter filling Michael's bedroom as Ashton takes a swig of the beer that Michael offers him.

And then, Michael says, "Hey. I love you."

Ashton's in the middle of chewing the evasive carrot when Michael says it, so all Ashton can immediately manage is a close lipped smile. Michael's never said it before—neither of them have—but Ashton doesn't freak out when he hears it. Instead, he just leans over on the mattress, pressing a messy kiss to Michael's cheek before he goes back to digging around in his takeout box.

He feels Michael's eyes boring into his profile as he takes a huge bite of chicken, so with his mouth full and cheeks puffed with the effort of chewing, he glances over at his boyfriend. He shrugs and furrows his eyebrows, as if to say, 'what?'

Michael makes a sound of displeasure, reaching out to nip at Ashton's golden curls with his chopsticks. He roughly tugs once in reprimand when he successfully latches on to a lock, and Ashton barks at the sting.

"Ow," Ashton mutters, pushing Michael's chopsticks away and rubbing gently at his assaulted scalp.

"Don't you love me, too?" Michael asks weakly, and Ashton feels a little bad, then. He hadn't meant to hurt his boyfriend's feelings, he just figured it was already a well known mutual thing between them—that they loved each other.

Ashton tuts, setting his box down on the nightstand beside the bed. He rolls over, straddling Michael's slim, eighteen year old hips, cupping Michael's jaw in his large hands. It's always felt a little ridiculous, how much bigger Ashton seems in comparison to his boyfriend. Michael's always said he likes it, though. That he likes the feeling of being completely entrapped by the older boy.

With Michael sitting below him, his back against the headboard, Ashton kisses him. It's brief and chaste, but Michael still closes his eyes and sighs deeply, arching his neck up for it like he always does. Ashton loves the way that Michael puts everything into kissing him.

"Of course I love you, too." Ashton whispers, brushing Michael's fading blue hair out of his eyes. He continues to touch after that, his fingers caressing the inches of Michael's pale face, mapping out the skin like he hasn't done it a million times in their six months together. "I'm sorry I didn't say it right away. I thought you already knew that."

Michael blushes, pressing his face into Ashton's bare shoulder as soon as his skin starts noticeably going red. He keeps trying to press closer, like he's embarrassed by Ashton's words, and his hair is tickling Ashton's skin every time he wiggles forward.

"Stop it." Ashton laughs, coaxing Michael's head back so he can look at him again. Michael's smiling stupidly, looking at Ashton like he's the stars, and Ashton doesn't think he's ever been as happy in his whole life as he is right now, with the way Michael makes him feel. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah, I know that." Michael chuckles, pressing another quick peck to Ashton's jaw. "It's just nice to hear you say it back."

Ashton hums contently, brushing his nose against Michael's before he dips his head and kisses him properly. It makes Michael's breath hitch, as if Ashton's stolen it from him, and then Michael's sliding himself down until he's laying flat on his back on the mattress. The older boy pauses to admire the view, to take in the expanse of pale skin below him, taut over soft muscle with the way Michael's stretching his body out.

He can't help it when he immediately scoots down, pressing repeated kisses to Michael's exposed chest and stomach. Michael's breathing gets all labored and shallow when he does it, his hips squirming when Ashton digs his fingers into them hard.

Michael feels thinner in Ashton's grip somehow, then. As though he's vanishing. Ashton can sense, even with his eyes clenched shut, how Michael is drifting away from him, and it feels like Ashton's losing him, but this shouldn't be a moment that Ashton ever loses. This afternoon changed his life, it shouldn't be _disappearing_ right in front of him.

Desperately, Ashton wraps his arms around Michael's waist, burying his face against Michael's soft stomach. He clings tight, willing the feeling of dread that's overtaking him to go away, but the only thing that dissipates is Michael, just before the rest of this moment does, too.

*********

A month before Michael turns nineteen, he moves in with Ashton. He isn't able to sell his own place right away, so technically that's still a burden they've got weighing on them, but Michael had insisted he'd rather live with Ashton as soon as possible, regardless of if his house ever sold or not.

(Luke skittishly tells them that it's awfully soon for moving in together. Michael tells him to mind his own business.)

Ashton's never shared a place with somebody before, with the exception of, like, when he was growing up in his mum's house with two younger siblings, so it's more than a little weird and generally awkward at first to have Michael occupying his apartment. Not because he doesn't love having Michael around, but because he has to get accustomed to living with other people's messes.

See, Ashton's a neat person. Maybe not stereotypically so, but he really does prefer when everything has a place. Michael, not so much.

When Michael moves in, so do his vast arrays of records and his seemingly endless boxes of graphic novels. They take up so much room in Ashton's bedroom/living room combo, and really only succeed in making walking around the flat increasingly difficult. But Ashton can't find the heart to say anything, because every night while Ashton's in their bed finishing up paperwork that he brought home with him from the office, Michael will curl right up into his side and flip through his comic books with absolute amazement on his face, tightening his grip on Ashton's forearm whenever something particularly exciting happens in them. Ashton loves that.

It's especially difficult learning to work around each other in the bathroom and the kitchen. There isn't a lot of room in Ashton's apartment to begin with, but when there's two people trying to do two separate tasks in the same cramped space, it tends to result in frustration and bickering. (Sometimes, though, it ends in rough sex against the counter, with Michael's fingers buried in Ashton's curls as Ashton kisses at his neck, fucks into him quick and hard. So really, it's not all bad, constantly rubbing up against each other in tight spaces like that.)

One Saturday morning, when the sun has barely risen and Ashton's still absentmindedly stroking his fingers through his boyfriend's hair sleepily like he does every morning, Michael suggests they paint the studio bedroom something brighter, or happier. It's some boring beige currently, which Ashton doesn't actually dislike, but he knows Michael will only pout until he gets his way about it. Ashton doesn't really think Michael's even thought through what it entails to repaint an entire room, but he also knows Michael's just impulsive like that. And he's always really admired that about Michael, so he goes along with it.

Michael drives them down to the hardware store, eagerly pulling Ashton in front of the wall of seemingly endless sample color sheets. It doesn't take any time at all for Michael to start grabbing at random ones—yellows and oranges and purples. Ashton suggests maybe taking the test sheets home to tack them up on the wall and see if they'd even work in the apartment, but of course Michael waves him off, telling him it'll be more fun to be somewhat daring for once. He ignores the way that comment—that little _for once_ tacked on at the end—grates on him.

They agree on one called Afterglow, which looks like a cross between tan and peach. It's definitely brighter and happier, though, like Michael had said, and if he's honest, he doesn't actually hate it.

Michael has one of his favorite oldies rock albums playing on the record player while they work. It's mid-afternoon by this point, and Ashton's taking a break from painting to make them a couple of sandwiches. Michael's still admiring their work, standing in the middle of the mostly cleared out room with his hands on his hips and a paintbrush in hand. Ashton wishes he had a camera on him, so he could capture this moment.

"Isn't this so much nicer?" Michael asks suddenly, turning to glance at Ashton over his shoulder. He's got a joyous smile on his face and a smear of paint across his cheek from when Ashton had stealthily attacked him, and Ashton falls a little more in love with him.

Ashton concurs, putting their sandwiches on a plate and carrying them back over to the studio bedroom. Michael sets down his brush in exchange for a slice of sandwich and gives Ashton a gentle kiss to thank him for the food, before he turns back to the single wall they've just finished.

"It really is nice, Michael, I mean it." Ashton says. "Makes it feel a lot warmer in here."

Michael smiles bashfully, bumping his shoulder into his boyfriend's. "I'm glad you like it. I think it's a lot more, you know, _us_."

Ashton nods, sliding his arm around Michael's waist and pulling the boy's back to his chest. Michael hums at the sudden closeness, snuggling back into the touch like it's muscle memory.

"Do you think we should take a break?" Michael asks suddenly, voice low and suggestive in that way Ashton's come to be so familiar with.

Chuckling, Ashton pinches at Michael's hip. The younger boy squeaks, but doesn't go anywhere, just melts back into Ashton a little bit more. "We're not taking a break from painting just to have sex."

Michael groans, turning around in Ashton's embrace to pout up at him directly. It's a deadly tactic, and Ashton almost falls for it, especially when Michael takes the plate out of Ashton's free hand and sets their food down on the coffee table beside them so there are no more distractions.

"Just, like." Michael murmurs, eyes on Ashton's lips as he starts inching his pale fingers up under the hem of the older boy's shirt. Ashton sucks in a breath at the brush of Michael's fingertips against his skin, has to physically shake his head in order to not fall for Michael's scheme. "Just really quick. And then we can go right back to working."

"S'never quick with you." Ashton points out, and Michael shrugs like he's inclined to agree with that but isn't ashamed by it. "But no." Ashton adds, begrudgingly removing Michael's hands from under his clothes. "We can do sex things later, when we've finished the room."

Michael grumbles, "Okay, but also, we could just have this one wall painted. It could be accent wall."

Ashton laughs, has to kiss Michael once for how hard he's trying to get laid. It's admirable, if Ashton's honest. "You're the one that wanted to paint the bedroom. So let's paint the bedroom."

As Ashton squeezes past his boyfriend to get back to work, he swats him on the ass, just because he can. It makes Michael jump in shock, then round on him quickly, and Ashton's smiling the whole time that Michael tackles him onto their pull out couch, his short fingers digging into Ashton's sides as he demands for the boy to beg for mercy.

(And if Ashton indulges Michael with a quickie only a few minutes later, well. Sue him.)

*********

When the following winter comes around, their lake freezes over once again. And with the winter comes several more nights spent huddling for warmth out on the ice, gazing up at the stars as Ashton shows Michael the constellations he's learned just for the purpose of teaching them to his boyfriend.

Michael always eats up the knowledge, his wide eyes glued to the sky as Ashton traces out the patterns and then has Michael do the same, to make sure Michael's truly seeing them this time around. The younger boy still makes jokes about seeing Gemini, even when it's not there, and Ashton kisses him like he's doing it as a punishment every time.

On Valentine's Day, just over a year after they meet, Michael insists that they finally try to ice skate on their favorite frozen lake.

It doesn't go well. Not even slightly. Michael falls on his ass probably half a dozen times, and Ashton inches along on wobbly, unsteady legs after him. The wind is too cold on his face, and he's pretty sure his feet are going numb in his skates that are a lot thinner than the boots he usually wears out here.

But he can't even complain, not _really_ , because Michael holds his hand nearly the whole time and skates around on the ice with him at a crawling pace. And every time they pause to regain their balance, Michael looks at Ashton in that way of his—that way he did even on their first date, like Ashton held the entire galaxy in his very hands—before one time he whispers, "I love you."

Ashton asks, "How much?"

To which Michael replies, "To the ends of the earth, and to the moon and back."

When Ashton thinks about what it means to feel truly at ease, or to feel truly _alive_ , he thinks of this night. He thinks about Michael's hand in his, about the horrific bruise that forms on Michael's ass the next morning from all of the falling on it he did. He thinks about how Michael held him close that night when they were back in their bed under the warmth of their covers and said, so fucking softly, "I'm gonna marry you, Ashton Irwin. I just know it."

*********

In April of that same year, Michael drags Ashton to his favorite flea market downtown. It's only open once a month, so they miss going more often than Michael has said he'd like, and Ashton promises that they'll spend the whole afternoon walking around the booths to hopefully make up for the lost time. Michael tells him that he appreciates the sentiment, calls him the greatest boyfriend around and kisses his nose happily before they get out of the car and walk inside.

Ashton never feels the urge to really buy anything at these things, so mostly he sticks to Michael's side with his hands in his pockets while Michael admires at least one thing from every single booth. On more than one occasion, Ashton has thought Michael would be great at making stuff like the art people sell at flea markets, but as much as he hates to say it, he also knows Michael lacks the dedication involved for something like that. Which is why he'd absolutely never say anything.

At some point, he wanders off to check out some unassuming booth full of overpriced knockoff jewelry. He has no real interest in buying any of it, he'd just rather look busy than bored. Which he kind of is—bored, that is. This whole vintage/indie thing isn't really his scene, though it's definitely Michael's.

"Hey!" Michael exclaims, jumping into Ashton's space unannounced. Without waiting for a response, he bends down slightly and worms his way underneath Ashton's arm, forcing the older boy to wrap it around Michael's shoulders. Michael looks smug, as if he's won something, and Ashton laughs before kissing Michael's temple.

"Wanna get something to eat?" Ashton asks, since he knows he saw a food court of sorts a little ways back.

Michael nods, sliding one of his hands into the back pocket of Ashton's jeans. He does that a lot when they walk together, and Ashton always feels suddenly vulnerable with Michael subtly squeezing at his ass right there in public.

A couple booths down, they have to shuffle out of the way of a woman with a stroller who's taking up more room than she probably needs to be. Ashton hardly notes anything about the scene, aside from the inconvenience of having to make room for her, but Michael keeps staring after her for several seconds after she's already passed them by.

With furrowed eyebrows, Ashton asks, "You all good?"

The question snaps Michael out of whatever daze he'd slipped into, and he meets Ashton's eyes with this expression on his face that Ashton can't honestly place. It looks like desire, maybe, but not in the way Michael usually looks at him with desire. That tends to involve a lot more kissing and inappropriate groping than this.

"Ash?" Michael says dreamily, resting his head on Ashton's shoulder as they continue to walk towards the food court.

Ashton raises an eyebrow, chuckling. "Yes, Mike?" He imitates, just as dreamily.

"I want to have a baby. Let's have a baby."

It's not what Ashton expects. And, like, Ashton's not a hundred percent sure _what_ he expected, if he was even anticipating for Michael to add on anything at all. But it's _not_ that. It's not Michael confessing that he wants to have _kids_ already.

Maybe it's not so crazy an idea. Ashton would marry Michael. He loves him. And perhaps one day, Ashton would be honored to have children with the younger boy.

But he also knows Michael. He knows how the boy still leaves his towels on the floor and leaves his dirty dishes around the apartment. He knows that Michael still likes to party way too often, that Michael does things on a day to day basis—sometimes even hour to hour. He doesn't plan ahead, he's _impulsive_.

He knows that Michael's still learning how to take care of _himself_ , because he's hardly even nineteen.

Ashton thinks it's entirely logical and fair for him to retort, "Do you really think you're ready to have a baby right now?"

He assumes it'll end at that. But Michael goes all tense beside him, reels back and stops walking suddenly, and Ashton instantly knows it was the wrong thing to say.

"What the fuck?" Michael snaps, loudly. The profanity draws the eyes of a couple surrounding shoppers, and Ashton notices how most of them are parents. He bitterly notes that this is the exact kind of immaturity that he was suggesting. Michael's not ready to be a parent. He's still too much of a child himself.

"Michael," Ashton warns. "Not here."

Michael scoffs, putting his hands on his hips and replanting his feet as if to insinuate he's not going anywhere. "What does that even mean, _not here_? You can't just say something like that and then backtrack like you suddenly don't want to talk about it!"

Ashton winces, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He hates when Michael does this, when he makes scenes. Throws tantrums like he's six years old, not an adult.

"I don't want to talk about it here, but we can talk about it later, okay?" Ashton pleads.

The younger boy just gets even redder in the face, his hands clenching up into fists, and this is when Ashton decides he doesn't want to be around for an inevitable eruption.

He turns, hands in his pockets as he starts walking towards the market's exit this time. He can hear how Michael snorts in annoyance, then jogs to keep up with Ashton's brisk power walk.

"Don't just walk away, are you kidding me?" Michael calls out. "I'd make a fucking _great_ father, Ashton. Fuck you. Just because _you’re_ scared—"

Ashton stops dead in his tracks, hardly even noticing when Michael collides into his back, grumbling about it afterwards. When Ashton looks around, he can see the edges of the building that they're in beginning to blur, smudging like they're suddenly not there anymore. Like they're disappearing.

When Ashton tries to remember what the people and the booths surrounding himself and Michael looked like, he can't picture them. It's as though they're gone. His mind can't see them anymore.

"Are you seeing this?" Ashton asks, eyes darting around as he spins in a slow 360. It's getting blurrier all around them, grayer.

Michael gives him a 'what the fuck' face, before he goes, "What are you on about?"

Ashton huffs in frustration, before it suddenly feels like he's been punched, because just like that, it clicks.

He's _dreaming_. He's remembering all of these moments—all of these special memories— _as_ they're being destroyed.

" _Fuck_ , it's happening." Ashton murmurs, head swiveling desperately as he tries to search for a way out that hasn't already begun to disappear from his memory. "I'm fucking asleep right now—they're erasing you."

Michael crosses his arms. "You're _erasing_ me? What the fuck, _why_?"

Ashton looks to his boyfriend then, who's still there in front of him, but only barely. He's starting to go transparent, and Ashton's heart breaks. He doesn't want to lose this memory, no matter how uncomfortable or ugly this fight was on the day that it happened. It's still a huge part of them.

"You did it to me first." Ashton stubbornly points out, and Michael pauses before he shrugs, admitting defeat. "Come on, we have to switch memories. Gotta keep you here with me."

Michael yelps when Ashton grabs onto his wrist, taking off running in the only direction that seems safe. Gray still continues to envelop them, and he can hardly keep his grip on where Michael's slowly slipping away, but he holds fast, keeps running.

He keeps running, keeps going even when it feels like a vortex is trying to pull Michael and this memory away from him. He keeps _running_ , keeps going until—

*********

They end up in Michael's record store.

They're not running anymore. Instead, they're sitting in the middle of the floor of Michael’s workplace, a case of beer between them along with a devoured box of pizza. There's music playing over the shop's speakers, and even though the store is closed, Michael has snuck him in after hours.

Ashton remembers this night like it was only yesterday. In reality, this night happened almost a year ago.

"This is one of my favorite memories of you." Ashton says suddenly. It's not what he actually said the night that this moment happened for real, but Ashton's starting to realize that he's in control of what he says now. It's all lucid—he can experience the memories the way they happened, or he can change the things he said. It doesn't matter anyway—the memories won't be here anymore once he wakes up from this.

Michael hums, resting his head in Ashton's lap. "Mine, too. This one happened right before we really went bad."

Ashton frowns. "We didn't go _bad_ , we just. We got tired of each other. That only makes us human, right?"

Michael doesn't answer that. Instead, he just plays with Ashton's hands, tracing patterns into his open palm that Ashton immediately recognizes as the constellation he taught to Michael. _That_ , Ashton remembers actually happening during this memory, when he experienced it for the very first, original time. It makes his heart pound just as hard this time around, even though it's not _actually_ occurring in real time.

Ashton's heart breaks in half when Michael admits, "I loved you on this night."

Michael reaches up, caressing Ashton's jaw and stroking his thumb across slightly damp cheeks. Ashton's going to miss the hell out of him, and what's worse is that Ashton won't even remember anything about this relationship anymore, so he won't even know what it is he's missing.

"I want to call it off." Ashton whispers. "The procedure, I mean. I don't want to lose you anymore."

But before the Michael his subconscious is providing for him can say anything back, the memory starts fading away again, and they have to take off running once more.

*********

On Ashton's twenty-second birthday, roughly just over a half a year before things fall apart for good, Michael dyes his hair.

He's had it blond for several months, only touching up the roots as they came in because he insisted he was letting his hair regroup, get all strong and healthy again. Ashton had helped him deep condition it multiple times, and it's slowly become the healthiest Ashton's seen it in the entire time they've been together. It's all thick and full and beautiful—Ashton had loved how easy it was to run his fingers through sweetly (or how easy it was to pull on in less innocent scenarios).

Ashton's lounging on their bed scanning over some paperwork when he hears the bathroom door click open. He doesn't bother looking up, assuming Michael had just been showering or something, but he does sort of mindlessly scoot himself over to make some room for Michael to climb in bed beside him.

It's only when Michael clears his throat stubbornly that Ashton draws his eyes away from his work, and his eyes instantly go all wide behind his reading glasses (which he hates, despite that Michael insists he looks like a sexy professor in them).

"Do you like it?" Michael asks, a vibrant grin stretched across his face that's almost as warm as the sun streaming in through their blinds. He spins around like a runway model, and Ashton can't help but laugh, pushing his glasses and paperwork onto the nightstand before making grabby hands at his boyfriend.

Michael goes easily, collapsing into Ashton's arms like the older boy is inviting him to. Ashton admires the brilliant red color of Michael's hair up close, his fingers combing through it and inspecting the locks like he's in disbelief. Michael simply purrs, resting his head on Ashton's chest and letting his boyfriend have his fun.

"Like it? I _love_ it." Ashton confesses, burying his face in the boy's hair and inhaling the scent of whatever shampoo he must've used when washing the dye out. "It's so pretty. Like an apple, or a cherry. An orange."

Michael snorts at the last word, pushing up onto his elbows and looking down at Ashton with an adorably confused pout on his face. Ashton wants to kiss it right off of him.

"S'not _orange_ , oh my god." Michael teases, nipping at Ashton's nose. "I love you, my blind little bat."

"Okay, so it's not straight up orange." Ashton considers that for a moment. "It’s blood orange then, at least."

Michael giggles, burying his face in Ashton's neck. His freshly dyed hair tickles Ashton's skin with every tiny movement that he makes, but Ashton just closes his eyes and revels in the feeling of it. It's a sensation he'll never get tired of, but will probably also never get entirely used to, either.

"It's just _red_." Michael insists, his voice small and adorable in that way it sometimes gets. It never fails to do something to Ashton, always makes his stomach flip in this uncontrollable way, has him feeling like he's floating, or in free fall.

"Alright, alright." Ashton allows, resting his hands on Michael's hips before he rolls them, pinning Michael to the mattress with his knees barricading either side of the younger boy's thighs. He'll be twenty in a few months, but he's already grown drastically into more of a man than he appeared to be when Ashton met him in Camber Sands for the first time a year and a half ago.

"The prettiest red." Ashton whispers, leaning down to trail his lips from Michael's ear down to the corner of the boy's mouth. He loves the way Michael's breath hitches at the gentle touch. "For the _prettiest_ boy."

Michael gasps softly, one hand reaching up to tangle in Ashton's curls. "Ash," he breathes, eyes fluttering closed when the older boy starts planting kisses along his neck.

Ashton remembers feeling like nothing could come between them right then, in that moment.

That is, until he feels that familiar and yet somehow still entirely foreign static tingling between them, threatening to take all of this away before Ashton's even had a chance to really enjoy it again.

Because it's the only way Ashton knows how to make the impending erasure feel unreal, he kisses Michael hard, clinging to him desperately as he prays to whatever god may be listening that he never, _ever_ wakes up without this.

*********

One night, a couple weeks before Michael turns twenty, Ashton has one of the worst days possible at the office.

Anything and everything that could possibly go wrong _did_ go wrong. Ashton's been up to his neck in paperwork for hours in order to make up for the accounting mistakes of his coworkers, even putting in some additional hours of overtime just to make sure he really got as much time out of the day to correct the problems as he could.

To make matters worse, he'd gone out to the parking lot only to find a massive dent in the side of his car, inevitably from a careless asshole who had swung their door into his vehicle and hadn't bothered to leave a note. Ashton thinks briefly about looking at the security tapes just to see who's done it, but then he realizes how much additional time that would take, and he just wants to go HOME.

Home, where Michael is waiting for him with leftover takeout and beer and old movies on the TV. Where he can take a long shower to unwind and probably convince his boyfriend to join him.

God, it's all he wants. To _relax_.

But, because nobody appears to be on Ashton's side today, the apartment is in a state that Ashton can't physically leave it when he gets home. There's dishes piled high in the sink, the trash hasn't been taken out, and the pile of comic books that Michael swears he'll clean up soon just keeps growing and growing and _growing_.

Ashton doesn't want to be a dick, but like. He works hard, right? He helps provide for them pretty well, considering they don't make a whole lot, even combined. And he doesn't think it's too much to ask that maybe sometimes, just every once in awhile, like on the days that Ashton works three hours past the end of his shift, Michael could pitch in. So that Ashton doesn't feel like he has to do everything. So he can feel like Michael actually cares enough about him and their home to take some initiative and help to clean it once in awhile. He doesn't think that's completely unreasonable. That's just _fair_ , probably. Common courtesy when you're sharing a home with somebody that you care about.

Currently, however, Michael's curled up in their bed, the television on even though he's reading one of his comics instead of watching it. There are empty boxes of takeout on the nightstand beside him, and Ashton wrinkles his nose when he realizes he doesn't know how old those boxes actually are.

He tries not to sound too irritated when he goes, "Mike, you've been home all day, right?"

Michael hums, but he doesn't bother to do more than glance over in Ashton's direction, barely acknowledging him. "Yeah. S'my day off."

"Right." Ashton sighs. He wants to let it go, honestly. And he's trying really hard to do that. It's just, the longer he looks at the mess around their apartment, and then at the bed where it appears Michael hasn't even moved from his spot all day, the hotter his blood gets and the more upset he makes himself. "But, um. It's a literal mess in here."

 _That_ catches Michael's attention. Instantly, the boy's head snaps up, his eyes slightly narrowed like they get when he starts going all defensive.

"Okay?" Michael snorts, shrugging. "You've had a long day, don't worry about it. I'll get to it."

Ashton rolls his eyes, rolling his jacket off of his shoulders and rolling his dress shirt's sleeves up to his elbows. Clearly he's going to have to just clean the place up himself. Which is fine, whatever. He's used to it by now. Michael hardly ever pulls his weight without being bribed or prompted somehow.

"Hey." Michael snaps, setting his novel to the side and sitting up. He looks rigid, irritated. "Ash, I _said_ I'd get to it. Come to bed, okay?"

The older boy snorts. "Mike, we both know you're not gonna get to it. It's not a big deal, I just want to knock it out before bed."

The air shifts in the room then, like it's suddenly heavier. Ashton doesn't think he's said anything particularly awful, but maybe he'd said it more hostilely than he'd meant it. Even if he hadn't, though, he's always known Michael to blow things out of proportion.

"God, don't be such a fucking control freak. I said I would do it, and I meant it." Michael says. His voice has taken on that fiery edge, just like it does every time they have an argument.

Which. Wonderful. This is now officially an argument.

"That's not the _point_ , Mike!" Ashton throws back, setting down the plate he'd just started washing so that he doesn't do something stupid like slam it on the floor in anger. "The point is that you never do anything to help out on your own. It's like I always have to fucking _remind_ you, or something." He shakes his head, looking back down at the pile of dishes he's hardly even a quarter of the way through. He just wants to _sleep_. "You're such a child, Michael. It's like living with a _child_ , sometimes, I swear."

Michael makes this high pitched noise of disbelief, and Ashton swears it couldn't seem more like a whine unless the younger boy literally stomped his foot along with the sound. It just makes Ashton feel more secure in his point.

"I can't believe you'd say that to me." Michael complains. Ashton knows it's supposed to sound like they're talking out their problem, but Ashton also knows Michael. And when Michael communicates what he's thinking, he also never has his mind open to what Ashton might be thinking right back. It's all so fucking one sided. It’s rigged, and Michael always wins. "I'm really hurt that you'd say that to me."

Ashton squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He's getting a damn headache.

"I'm sorry." Ashton says, though he's not sure how much of what he's said he's actually sorry for.

Michael doesn't accept or refuse the apology, just angrily grabs his jacket and wallet and mumbles something about how he'll be back later. Ashton doesn't say it, but he laughs bitterly when he thinks about the money that's going to be drained from their account whenever Michael gets back from whatever bar he's inevitably running off to.

Ashton's so sick of feeling like he's the only adult in this household. He's so _tired_ of babysitting the man he loves.

He's so tired in _general_ , so he powers through the dishes in the sink and even musters up the energy to take the trash out. He doesn't bother showering tonight, since tomorrow's a weekend, and simply collapses into their bed, still wearing his work clothes.

It's later, though Ashton's not sure how _much_ later, when Michael climbs back into bed. He smells like booze, though not too incredibly strongly of it, and his body is so warm that Ashton doesn't have the heart to push him away and stay angry at him.

He keeps his eyes shut the whole time, so maybe Michael will think he's still asleep as Michael slides his arm around Ashton's waist, scooting up behind him until Ashton's his little spoon. Michael buries his face in the crook of Ashton's neck, just breathing him in, and Ashton finally feels himself relax. _This_ is everything that he’d needed when he got home from the worst day of work ever. He should've just taken it when Michael offered it instead of exploding about the dishes.

"You don't tell me things." Michael murmurs, his lips brushing Ashton's skin. "I tell you everything, but all you do is bottle it up and then explode. Why won't you _communicate_ with me, or be honest with me? I _always_ communicate with you."

Ashton hums, signaling that he's awake, and Michael rubs his hand along the older boy's tummy.

"Just because you're constantly talking at me doesn't mean that you're communicating with me." Ashton says. It's the honesty that Ashton thinks Michael wants, but it actually must not be, because Michael just scoffs in annoyance and retracts his arm from Ashton's waist, rolling his body away until they're not touching anymore.

Ashton quickly rolls over, chasing him, but Michael's body dissipates into nothing before Ashton can hold him close and correct his mistake.

*********

When the seasons start changing, Ashton remembers that there are only a couple of months left until they lose each other. Michael's only been twenty for a few days now, and they've yet to leave their apartment since the big birthday bash Calum had insisted they throw. Ashton _still_ feels hungover.

They're laying facing one another under the blankets in their bed, which are thin enough that the orangey glow of the sun setting outside is filtering through the fabric and bathing their skin in the color. Ashton can't help but think Michael looks like a literal angel, with this hue of color surrounding him.

Michael's hair has also faded to orange, and everything about him is so _warm_ right now. Ashton can't remember a time when he's felt so in love, or a time when he's ever felt so speechless while looking at Michael and knowing that he's _his_.

The television is on, but the volume is down so low that Ashton can't hear what's going on. It doesn't really matter much, anyway, considering they're under the blankets and not bothering to watch whatever's on screen.

"Ash?"

Ashton jumps a little, slightly startled by the sudden sound after all their silence. He doesn't say anything back, just emits a questioning hum and reaches out to brush some fringe out of his boyfriend's eyes.

"Do you think I'm ugly?" Michael asks.

Ashton's a bit speechless, his brows furrowing in concern as he pauses the movement of his fingers through Michael's hair. Michael doesn't seem to like the silence, since he frowns and fidgets under Ashton's slightly confused gaze.

"I-what? Mikey, of _course_ I don't think you're ugly." He shakes his head for emphasis, scooting himself in closer so that they're chest to chest. "Why would you ask me that?"

Michael shrugs, but he won't meet Ashton's eyes anymore. The green irises are cast off to the side, staring at some stray threads on their comforter like they're the most fascinating things he's ever seen.

"I used to think I was ugly. Like, when I was younger." Michael explains, and Ashton keeps on trailing his fingers along wherever he can quickly reach on Michael's body. "I was a dork in secondary, y'know? I was the weird kid who worked at the record store and knew too much about comic books. Too chubby and a lot nerdy with fuckin' emo hair and too much acne. People didn't look at me twice, Ash, never." The boy sighs, as if it doesn't matter that much to him, but Ashton can see the film of unshed tears in his eyes, and he knows better. "Just sort of started thinking one day that it must've been because I was ugly. That that _had_ to be the reason. Why else would _nobody_ like me?"

"Luke liked you." Ashton points out defiantly, because it's true. Luke likes everyone.

Michael rolls his eyes. "Luke likes everyone." He says, as if he can read Ashton's mind, and Ashton almost laughs at how similar their brains work. "So that doesn't count."

Ashton shakes his head again, kissing Michael's nose softly. "S'not true, it totally counts. And don't call yourself ugly. You're not ugly. You're so pretty, Michael. _so_ pretty."

Michael blushes, curling in on himself like he does whenever he feels that he doesn't deserve whatever Ashton's telling him. The older boy catches on before it's too late, though, ducking in and capturing Michael's lips with his own. Michael inhales sharply at the contact, clearly not expecting it even though they've kissed probably thousands of times before.

"You really think so?" Michael asks, breathless, and Ashton bumps their noses together gently.

"I know so." He says softly, peppering kisses across Michael's face as he pushes onto his elbows and rolls himself on top of the younger boy. Michael lays on his back below him, wide eyes staring up at Ashton in mesmerization. "You're pretty." Ashton whispers, leaning down and kissing Michael's wet, pouty lips. He keeps murmuring the words into the air between them every time he pulls back to take a breath, and by the fourth time, Michael's shuddering, squirming like he can't sit still under the weight of the compliments.

Ashton inches backwards, nosing his way along the expanse of Michael's bare chest. He leaves little kisses in his wake, loving the way Michael pants a bit harder and slides his short fingers into Ashton's curls, tugging just slightly.

"Ash—" Michael gasps, his back arching when Ashton starts sucking a bruise onto his tummy. It's a sensitive spot, but Michael's always liked having the marks there.

"Michael." Ashton says right back, hands splaying out across Michael's soft hips. His fingers are nudging at the waistband of Michael's underwear, not enough to remove them but just enough to tease, and Michael writhes below him when Ashton grips him harder, holds him down. "My beautiful boy."

The younger boy just whispers his name again, like that's all he can manage. Ashton's not offended, though—he loves when he can reduce Michael to incoherency, save for his name. It's the biggest form of flattery.

When Ashton's done kissing Michael's torso so much that Michael's blushing all over his body, he pulls the boy's underwear off, tossing them to the other end of the bed. Michael's hard, but not all the way, though that problem is solved the moment that Ashton sinks his mouth down on Michael's cock.

Ashton doesn't think he'll ever get sick of this—of making Michael feel so good that he loses his mind just a little bit. He loves taking care of Michael, probably more than he loves getting off himself, because when he does this for Michael, the boy makes these continuous, weak little sounds, his body shaking on the bed as he struggles to keep himself from fucking up into Ashton's mouth.

"Baby," Michael whispers dreamily, sliding his fingers more surely through Ashton's hair. His hands are shaking—just like the rest of his body—as he caresses Ashton's face. " _Fuck_ , that feels so good, I'm—"

Ashton chuckles, but the vibration of it must do something spectacular to Michael, since the boy's spine arches beautifully and his thighs start quaking underneath Ashton's fingers where the older man has the pale limbs pinned and spread apart.

He doubles his efforts, now that he can hear the high pitched whines starting to sneak their way in between Michael's standard moans, just like it always goes once Michael starts getting close. Ashton releases one of Michael's thighs, using his free hand to stroke where his mouth can't quite reach without a lot more time spent coaxing his throat open.

Michael doesn't seem to mind the lack of deep throating today, though, since he squeezes his eyes shut and _sobs_ at the extra touch. Michael's always been weak for a good old-fashioned blowjob—Ashton's not actually all that surprised that Michael's so close already.

He pulls off briefly to ask, "You gonna come for me, baby?" His hand doesn't stop jerking Michael's cock, fast and firm over the first couple inches as his thumb torturously swirls over the pink head. Ashton's own dick twitches in sympathy at how close Michael looks, but he pushes that to the back of his mind, because it's not about him right now.

"I-if that's okay, yeah." Michael whimpers back, his hips starting to rock up into Ashton's fist slightly. His eyes are still closed, but Ashton can see dampness prickling at the corners of them. _God_ , the boy's so close he's nearly crying. Ashton loves how sensitive he is. "I really need to—I'm gonna come."

Ashton nods, even though Michael isn't looking at him. "Yeah, 'course." He says, and the words are barely even passed his lips before Michael's breath is catching in the middle of a drawn out cry, his head pressing back into the pillows hard as his body goes tense and rigid all over. Ashton scrambles to get his lips back around the crown of Michael's cock, and he's just in time to feel the first strong, hot pulses of it against his tongue. His own body gives a little shiver at the familiar taste—not pleasant, necessarily, but also kind of good because of the boy that it belongs to.

The older boy continues to lap at Michael's cock until he has to physically be pushed away, Michael's whole body seizing up in waves of oversensitivity. Michael's panting above him, his skin sticky and shiny with sweat, and Ashton notices the thin layer along his own body, as well. It's hot and humid under the covers now, but neither of them makes a move to escape from underneath them.

"You're so beautiful." Ashton says again, pressing sweet, tender kisses on Michael's thighs. He's so hard it actually kind of hurts, so he grinds against the mattress a bit to take some of the edge off. If he can hold out, though, Michael will be ready to go again in a few minutes, and he'd much rather come while buried balls deep in his boyfriend than in his underwear while humping the pillows. He's twenty two, not fifteen.

Michael hums sleepily, carding his fingers through Ashton's hair. The sensation is perfect, and Ashton moans embarrassingly, pushing up into the touch like a cat. He's always loved when Michael messes with his hair—whether it be in soft moments like this, or in rough moments where Ashton's fucking him so hard that Michael has to yank on the honey colored locks in order to even keep himself grounded.

When Michael's grip slackens, Ashton looks up through mostly hooded eyes to protest. He doesn't want Michael to fall asleep yet.

What he's faced with instead of his sleeping boyfriend is Michael very much awake, but his body is going all opaque once more. He's flickering in and out, like he's only just barely hanging on to this moment, and Ashton whimpers.

"No," he says softly, his voice cracking. He reaches out to grip onto his boyfriend tightly, but it's apparently too late for Ashton to do anything, and his hand just slips right through.

There's no more warm, orange light creeping in through the sheets. Instead, it's all dark, and Ashton knows without looking that outside of this comforter on top of him is a sea of grey that means everything about this night, this _memory_ , is disappearing right in front of him.

"I want to call it off." Ashton cries again, as if somebody _real_ can hear him inside his own unconscious mind, desperately clawing through the sheets after Michael as the boy keeps on fading away. "Fuck, _please_ , just let me have this one. Let me keep this one moment. Just this one."

The sinking feeling in his chest doesn't go away, though, and the grey surrounding him doesn't retreat. Michael just keeps fading further and further away, until Ashton can't see him anymore, and only then does Ashton finally give up on chasing after him, collapsing into the sheets as the grey fills up the space where Michael used to be.

It feels like he's finally, truly lost everything.

*********

The last time that Ashton ever sees Michael before Michael erases him, back when they both still remembered each other, it’s a Saturday night. And it’s actually a _normal_ Saturday night, for the most part. Normal meaning that Ashton’s been home all day, and Michael’s been at work the whole time. Which is fine, that happens every week. It sucks, kind of, because Ashton would love the opportunity for them both to have a day off at the same time, but it’s not all bad. Really, it’s not.

Except for tonight.

Michael had mentioned going out for drinks with some coworkers after the shop closed, which Ashton told him was fine. He hadn’t felt the pressing urge to go with him down to the bar, despite Michael’s invitation, so he’s just been waiting up, drinking tea while he reads and biding time until his boyfriend gets home so that they can have at least _some_ downtime together before they go to sleep and do this same work routine tomorrow morning. It’s all fine, it’s all good.

That is, until Ashton hears the unmistakable sound of a vehicle’s tires screeching, the driver obviously slamming on the brakes, before he hears the car crash into something.

He’s out of his seat instantly, rushing over to the window overlooking the street below their building. Initially, he feels sick to his stomach with worry, but once he recognizes his own car as the one Michael’s just completely sideswiped against one of the other apartment residents’ truck, the only thing he feels is rage.

He doesn’t even bother to torture himself with watching Michael get out of the car and stumble his way up to the apartment lobby. Instead, he just sits back down at the table, staring at his half empty mug and fiddling with the dog eared pages of his novel. It does little to calm him down, but even the slightest amount of calm could do him some good right about now.

Michael’s loud about getting inside the apartment, cursing loudly from out in the hallway when he drops his keys not once, but three times. Ashton hopes none of their neighbors complain about the noise on top of the however many hundreds of dollars in damages Michael’s done to one of their cars.

Ashton doesn’t say anything when Michael initially walks in, just keeps staring at his mug of tea and trying not to scream or, like, punch a hole in the wall.

Michael stumbles into their foyer, giggling when he shuts the door behind himself too loudly. He hiccups, and Ashton swears if this were a cartoon, he’d be able to see the bubbles from the booze escaping Michael’s mouth when he does it. He can sure as hell already smell the alcohol on his boyfriend.

The thing is, Ashton doesn’t care about drinking. Really, he doesn’t. They both do it, so Ashton would be a hypocrite to give Michael shit for getting drunk with his coworkers after a long shift.

Ashton’s issue is that Michael drove himself home. When he can’t even walk inside their home without fucking up somehow.

Michael gasps excitedly when he sees Ashton sitting at the table, blowing him a kiss as he passes by and throws himself down onto their bed. “I may have, like. Dinged your car. But don’ worry, s’not even bad, really.” He slurs, and Ashton sighs.

“You’re so fucking irresponsible.” Ashton states simply, standing up and carrying his mug over to the sink to rinse it out. He means to leave it at that, but the more that he thinks about it, coupled with the way Michael chuckles and shrugs like this whole thing is no big deal sends Ashton over the edge. “You know, shit like this is why I always say you’re incapable of being a father right now. Since you want _so badly_ to know why I think we shouldn’t have kids.” And that, well. _That_ gets Michael’s attention.

Michael instantly sits up, swaying slightly. His eyes are narrowed in Ashton’s direction, and he’s all rigid with obvious rage.

“Oh, fuck you, Ashton.” Michael snaps, taking off his hat and gloves he’d been wearing thanks to the cold London winter before he tosses them onto the floor angrily. “Go ahead and make it about me. We both know the reason you don’t want kids is because y’know the stick up your ass is so big you’d make a shitty father. You can’t even be bothered to _live_ a little.”

Ashton just snorts, crossing his arms as he leans against the archway between the kitchen and their bedroom. Michael won’t meet his eyes, and even though his words are hostile, Ashton knows he’s finally struck a chord that matters. One that’ll finally make Michael _listen_.

“Oh, _I’d_ be the shitty father?” Ashton inquires. “Me? When _you’re_ the one who drives home wasted and crashes our only fucking car? I _have_ to be uptight, Michael, because I’m always fucking keeping _you_ out of trouble. _That’s_ why I don’t want to have kids with you right now.” He sighs, rubbing at his temples. “Because you’re my _boyfriend_ , Mike, not a child, and yet I still have to treat you like one.”

Michael pushes off the bed, glaring at Ashton as he stomps by him on his way to the bathroom. From the kitchen, Ashton can hear the younger boy rustling around, and curiosity surpasses his anger as he follows his boyfriend down the hall and to the bathroom.

Michael’s got one of their travel toiletry bags in his hand, and he’s throwing his most commonly used items into it furiously. And Ashton knows he’s supposed to be angry, but the thought that Michael’s so upset he’s _leaving_ sends Ashton into a panic.

“I—Mikey, wait, what are you—” Ashton tries, but Michael just shoves past him, grabbing a garbage bag from the kitchen that he starts shoving handfuls of his clothes into. He’s blowing Ashton off now, and even though Michael’s the one who made the potentially life threatening mistake, Ashton feels like he deserves the award for Absolute Worst Person on the Entire Planet. “Michael, stop, I’m sorry, don’t—”

Michael just whirls on him, pointing at him and shaking his head. “Leave me alone, alright?” His voice is rough, like he’s holding something back, and when Ashton catches a glimpse of the redness in his boyfriend’s eyes he realizes it’s _tears_. “I know I’m not perfect, Ash, but I’m _not_ a child.” He whispers, swallowing hard. “I get that from everyone else already. I didn’t think I’d have to keep getting it from you, too.”

The younger boy turns and storms out the front door before Ashton can even think up a response. He stands there stupidly for too long, and it’s not until he hears the door to the apartment stairs slamming shut that he realizes Michael’s _really_ leaving right now.

They’ve never fought like this. Not enough for Michael to _leave_. The odds are he’ll just go to Calum and Luke’s place, he thinks, but he’s really not willing to take the risk. Michael’s too drunk to make it anywhere without help.

So Ashton bolts out of the apartment, forgetting both shoes and a jacket. He takes the stairs two at a time, and he barely makes it outside the building and into the numbingly cold London air before Michael disappears around the street corner. Ashton’s sprint is leaps and bounds faster than Michael’s angry power walk, though, so he takes off in the direction of his boyfriend confidently.

Only, the road keeps getting longer. He can just make out Michael’s body in the distance, stomping away with his bag of clothes in hand, but Ashton can’t _get_ to him. And god, he’s _trying_ , using every last bit of energy in him, but he _can’t_.

The grey starts rolling in, enveloping Michael’s retreating figure first and foremost, before it slowly begins creeping in closer to Ashton’s seemingly stationary body. He’s losing it. This is quite literally the _only_ memory he’s got left, and he’s _losing_ it.

He calls Michael’s name out, desperately, collapsing to his knees and feeling like he’s suffocating. He doesn’t stop, though, just squeezes his eyes shut and calls Michael’s name over and over and _over_ until his chest feels tight, and—

—Michael asks, “ _What_? Jesus, I’m right fucking here.”

Ashton’s eyes snap open, but he’s nowhere near that dark street anymore. Instead, he’s back in the familiar trees down by his and Michael’s favorite lake, with the boy he loves sitting right across from him. The leaves are still in the process of turning, Michael’s hair is vibrant red once more, and absolutely nothing is grey.

This isn’t a memory. Ashton never came down to the lake with Michael during this time of year. They never even came down to the lake when Michael had his red hair. He doesn’t know _what_ this is, but it’s sure as hell not a memory he has. This moment never happened.

It could be his conscience, maybe. Or something like it, at least. It has to be. How else would he be seeing Michael like this, when the last real, tangible memory he had of the boy disappeared just moments ago?

“I don’t want to go through with this.” Ashton whispers to Michael for what feels like the millionth time. “I don’t want to forget you, Mikey, I don’t.”

Michael coos, reaching out and stroking his thumb over Ashton’s chin quickly. “So wake up.” The red haired boy suggests, but Ashton just shakes his head. There’s no use fighting anymore, probably. Even if Ashton somehow managed to wake up right now, there wouldn’t be anything left of Michael here in his unconscious mind, anyway. It wouldn’t even matter.

“It doesn’t work like that, Michael. I can’t just—fuck. I’m so _sorry_ that I did this to us. To you.” Ashton buries his face in his shaking hands, and he can’t see it, but he can hear the crunch of the autumn leaves below them as Michael shifts himself to sit closer.

The familiar weight of Michael’s head leans onto his shoulder, and Ashton feels a little better for however brief a moment. “Mm,” Michael hums, “it’s okay. I did it, too, remember? I was stupid and impulsive, but maybe we’re both just stupid and impulsive. Not much else to it.”

Ashton shakes his head in protest, kissing Michael’s hair softly. “You’re not stupid.”

Michael chuckles, resting his pale hand on Ashton’s thigh. Together, they look through the trees and out over the lake. It’s a view Ashton’s sure he’ll see again sometime, but he knows he’ll never see it like _this_ again. He’ll never see it with Michael curled up beside him, with Michael hopelessly in love with him.

“I like to think that it’ll work out.” Michael says gently.

Ashton snorts. “How could this possibly work out?” Michael doesn’t give him a definitive answer, just shrugs and keeps looking at the lake, so Ashton lets it go. “God, Mikey, I just wish we could, like…start over. I love you so goddamn much.”

Michael pulls back, turning his head so that they can look at each other directly. He’s so fucking beautiful in this light, Ashton notes, with the color of the leaves contrasting against the brilliancy of his hair. His green eyes are more full of life here than Ashton’s ever seen them anywhere else before.

“Well, remember me, then.” Michael suggests, like it’s so cut and dry. “Try your very best, and maybe we _can_ start over.”

“Mike, don’t you see? It’s _over_ , you’re _gone_. After this, there’s nothing left. Don’t you get it?” He asks, and Michael just frowns, leaning in to rest their foreheads together.

With just centimeters of space between their lips, Michael says, “I wish I had stayed that night.”

Without even having to ask for clarification, Ashton knows that Michael means the night of their big fight. And without hesitation, Ashton says, “I wish you had stayed, too.”

Michael kisses him then, slow and sweet and even though it’s not real, Ashton swears he can still feel it in every fiber of his being as if it was. The younger boy doesn’t take it any further than that, simply pulling back an inch or so once he’s had his fill.

There are tears in the boy’s eyes, and Ashton swears there have to be some in his own. “I’m terrified to wake up and not know you, Mikey.” Ashton whispers. “You’re the best thing I know. The best thing I’ve ever had.”

Michael just smiles softly, bumping Ashton’s nose with his own before he closes the gap between their mouths. As Michael bumps their lips together, there’s a chilling gust of wind that blows past and kicks up a cluster of leaves, and it feels like magic, somehow.

“Meet me in Sussex.” Michael breathes against his parted lips, and it’s the last thing Ashton hears or feels before the grey creeps in uninvited, overtaking him and pulling Michael away from him for the final time.

 

**ACT THREE**

 

Ashton wakes up feeling like he’s been run over by a truck—just absolutely trashed. And it’s ridiculous, because he knows that he went to bed at a reasonable hour last night, yet he still feels like he’s gotten no rest.

Well, he _thinks_ he went to bed at a reasonable hour last night. Truth be told, he doesn’t quite remember much of anything from last night.

He sits up, groaning at the unbelievable stiffness in his muscles. His joints pop and creak in protest of the movement, and he winces as he tries to stretch. Apparently he slept in an awkward position for most of last night—he _never_ feels this horrible when he first wakes up in the morning.

Yawning, he kicks the comforter off of his legs and looks towards the alarm clock on his nightstand. Bitterly, he notes that the little digital calendar on the clock is telling him it’s Valentine’s Day, and suddenly he realizes he must not remember anything from last night because he was busy getting piss drunk. There’s a bottle of beer on the kitchen counter—it’s probably a reasonable conclusion.

See, the thing is, Valentine’s Day is a completely bullshit holiday, in Ashton’s opinion. All it does is make single people feel like crap about the fact that they’re alone, and Ashton’s had enough of it. He doesn’t need to be reminded that he hasn’t been seeing anyone for _years_ now.

With a dampened mood, Ashton forces himself to get out of bed, fluffing his hair as he makes his way to the bathroom down the hall. Even as shitty as he’s feeling, it’s still a work day, and Ashton’s still very much in need of some hours.

He gets ready in record timing, in spite of everything, and so he takes the time to actually enjoy some tea before work. There’s a novel sitting on the table when he sits down, and although he definitely remembers buying it, he doesn’t remember it being in such poor condition when he did. The pages are all crinkled and dog eared, clearly reread and well used time and time again. Ashton should really send a complaint to the bookstore about selling used books for full price.

He has incredibly good luck with traffic on his drive to the train station, and he’d dare to say he makes it to the station in record timing. The foot traffic _inside_ the station, however, isn’t so lucky, and Ashton feels sort of discouraged again as he stands on the platform waiting for his train downtown to arrive.

It’s all so mundane. He’s been doing this every day for years now, like he’s just a cog in some much larger corporate machine. Sometimes, Ashton wonders if he’s worth more than that. If he should be doing more with his life than standing on a train platform at eight o’clock in the morning, holding a briefcase and looking like a cookie-cutter replica of the other handful of businessmen around him in their work suits and ties.

Across the tracks, another train pulls into the station. It’s not the one Ashton needs, but as the intercom announces the arrival of a train headed to East Sussex, Ashton’s struck with the idea that perhaps, that’s the one he _wants_.

Once he’s thought it, he can’t shake it. His feet are carrying him of their own accord, and he shoves through pedestrians as he desperately darts to the bridge that will lead him to the other side of the tracks. He can’t remember the last time he ran this fast.

The train doors very nearly close on him as he slides through them and onto the train at the last second. A couple of passengers send him confused looks, and he just waves nervously, looking for the first available, isolated seat.

He doesn’t know why he felt the need to get on this train. He’s not, like, an impulsive person. Not by any means. And yet, he feels like sitting on this train heading to East Sussex is the one place he was truly supposed to be this morning.

He’s never even _been_ to Sussex.

*****

It takes two hours to arrive in Rye, and he calls his boss as soon as the train stops, making up some lame excuse about coming down with a flu of some kind. His boss buys it easily enough, and Ashton feels ridiculously like a teenager who’s managed to successfully skip class. He doesn’t even know why he’d want to ever miss work, when it’s quite honestly his entire life. _Especially_ when he needs the money it provides.

Even though it’s entirely cold enough in Rye, Ashton sees a bus stop down the road that holds the promise of a stop at Camber Sands beach, according to the sign beside it. Ashton knows it’ll be even chillier and windier down at the beach, but he has nothing better to do. It’s not like he really came down here with a _plan_ of any kind, after all.

And boy, was he right. He’s thankful for the thickness of his jacket, but only barely, since he still has no gloves or hat on. His dress shoes and the hem of his work pants are getting covered in sand as he walks along the coastline, and Ashton grumbles under his breath at himself for making such a stupid, reckless decision. What was he even thinking, catching that train?

For awhile, he thinks he’s alone on the beach. It would make sense—February in England. Not exactly bikini weather.

But a few minutes into his walk along the sand, he notices another obviously male figure down near the water. When he gets closer, Ashton gets a better look at the guy’s milky skin and aqua colored hair, and at first, Ashton thinks it’s that obscure hair color that draws him in. But the longer he watches this figure walking in front of him the more Ashton can’t decide _what_ it is that draws him in. Perhaps it’s everything about him.

Sighing, Ashton squeezes at the bridge of his nose, willing himself to stop sounding all, like, hopeless romantic in his head. He’s got to stop wishing he could meet someone new, because it’s been over two years. Romance clearly doesn’t just waltz into Ashton’s life like it does everyone else’s.

He’s got to stop falling in love with every guy he fucking sees. He’s starting to annoy _himself_ with all of his desperate pining over guys who’ve hardly shown him even the smallest bit of kindness.

Or, in this case, guys who haven’t even _looked_ at him yet.

*****

He hardly spends another hour or so down at the beach, opting instead to spend the rest of his unintentional day off back at his apartment. While he’s settling into his seat on the train, he wonders if maybe Calum and Luke would be interested in hanging out during his newfound free time, and makes a note to call one of them when he gets back to the city.

There’s hardly anybody on the train this time around, but horrifically, one of them happens to be the stunning boy from the beach. Ashton attempts to sink down lower in his seat, but he feels sort of foolish once he’s done it. He’s almost twenty three—he shouldn’t be hiding from people he just so happens to think are attractive. Nobody does that once they leave primary school, he’s sure of it.

“Hey.” A male voice says, and Ashton winces before he inches himself back up, peering over the edge of the seat in front of him. Sure enough, the voice belongs to the boy with the beautiful colored hair sitting across the aisle, and he’s looking right at Ashton.

“What?” Ashton asks stupidly.

The boy laughs, standing up and using the backs of the seats to balance himself as he walks closer. Without any permission, the boy plops himself down in the seat beside Ashton, giving him an adorable smile.

“I just said hey.” The boy clarifies, before he sticks out his hand. “I saw you sitting over here by yourself. Figured you could use some company. Where you headed?”

“Oh, um. Thanks, I guess.” Ashton clears his throat, nodding awkwardly. “I live in London, so. Going there.”

“Get out, me too!” The boy raises his eyebrows, wiggling his fingers impatiently in Ashton’s direction before Ashton curses himself silently and finally returns the handshake that the boy’s been waiting for. When he’s satisfied, the boy tilts his chin up proudly, giving Ashton a quick wink. “I’m Michael.” The boy says, as if Ashton had asked.

“I’m Ashton.” He offers back, hoping to leave it at that. He really can’t afford to embarrass himself anymore than he already has in the last, like, three minutes.

But Michael keeps looking at him, even though it’s actually more like _staring_ , his eyes narrowed as they flicker over Ashton’s features invasively. “Do I know you?” He asks, chewing on his lower lip and leaning forward slightly. Ashton resists the urge to reel back uncomfortably.

“I, uh. I don’t think so.”

Michael ignores him, tapping his fingers on his knee as he keeps staring at Ashton’s face like it holds secrets to the universe. He keeps it up for another long minute, before he huffs and relaxes his body in defeat. “I swear I’ve seen you before. Bizarre. Oh well.” Michael laughs, shrugging his shoulders.

Ashton nods, fidgeting with his grip on his briefcase. He feels so completely out of his realm around Michael. The boy is easily a couple years younger than himself, and he looks so free with his wildly colored hair and skinny jeans and pierced eyebrow. Ashton knows he looks boring—that he _is_ boring. He can’t fathom why Michael would still be talking to him.

“I like your hair.” Ashton says.

Michael grins, and his smile is so blinding Ashton almost decides to look away. “I wouldn’t get hooked on it, now. I change it way too often.”

Ashton blushes, looking down at his thumbs. He doesn’t know what to say in response to that, so he’s fully prepared to just not say anything for the rest of the ride at all.

But of course, Michael’s apparently too social for that. “I like your name.” He says, bumping Ashton’s shoulder lightly with his own. “Does it mean anything?”

Ashton’s never really thought much about his name. The meaning behind it hasn’t ever been the kind of thing to hold his interest. “I don’t know, actually.”

The blue haired boy’s jaw drops, like he can’t believe that answer, before he readjusts himself in the seat beside Ashton, getting comfier. Clearly, he doesn’t plan on leaving for the rest of their trip. “Well, mine means ‘who is like god’.” Michael explains.

Ashton mumbles, “That seems like a lot to live up to.” And he’s not really trying to be funny, because he’s really _not_ that funny, generally, but Michael’s emerald eyes go all squinty with the force of the laugh that the statement pulls out of him anyway. Ashton can’t help but chuckle along, too, because Michael’s laugh is sort of infuriatingly contagious. It’s super inconvenient. “And, um, I like your name, too.”

Michael smiles like he can’t help it, before his face goes all serious and he points at Ashton completely seriously. “Hey, before I forget, no jokes about my name, alright? My idiot friends always love to sing that song about a Michael—I think it’s that Franz Ferdinand one?”

For whatever reason, Ashton has the sudden feeling that this whole conversation is awfully redundant, like he’s had it before. But that _can’t_ be, it’s impossible, because he hasn’t even met this person before now. He doesn’t know Michael—he’d remember a face like Michael’s if he’d ever met him before, that’s for sure.

With wide eyes, Ashton shakes his head, putting his hands up in defense. “I don’t even know that song. I don’t know any jokes about your name, I swear.”

Michael relaxes, content with that answer, before he again settles in closer, resting his head on Ashton’s shoulder without even asking first. Ashton’s personal space feels sort of invaded, but at the same time, even this little act of affection from Michael feels unsettlingly—no, _impossibly_ —familiar.

Nothing makes a bit of goddamn sense today, apparently.

Maybe that’s just the Valentine’s Day blues, plaguing him again.

*****

When the train arrives back in London, they agree to go their separate ways. It’s only just after lunchtime, so Ashton knows the traffic will be light if he gets a move on, and he takes off towards the car park as quickly as he can once he gets off the train.

Approaching his car, he notices a long scrape along the passenger side that he _definitely_ hadn’t seen this morning. Groaning, he fights the urge to kick the vehicle parked beside his, whose body paint remains somehow unscathed after royally fucking up the paint on Ashton’s own car. It seems useless to even fight it at this point, so Ashton just takes a deep breath and climbs into the driver’s seat.

He’s got a twenty minute or so drive ahead of him, which immediately gets prolonged when he pulls out of the car park and notices that he in fact _hadn’t_ missed out on the lovely lunchtime traffic. It’s practically bumper to bumper, and Ashton’s starting to think he should’ve just walked home. Or maybe he should’ve just not left his damn apartment today.

A blur of aqua catches the corner of his eye, and when Ashton glances to the sidewalk beside the road he’s currently stuck on, he notices Michael walking in the same direction Ashton’s headed. His arms are wrapped around himself, his jacket too thin for the weather, and Ashton winces in sympathy.

Before he can think twice, Ashton rolls his window down, craning his neck slightly. “Hey!” He calls, honking once to get the boy’s attention.

Michael startles, glancing over to the source of the noise. He doesn’t appear to think anything of it at first, but when he recognizes Ashton’s face, his lips spread out into a wide grin, and he stops walking.

“Hey, you.” Michael says. “You stalking me?”

Ashton laughs. “You approached _me_ on that train, remember?” He pointedly ignores the butterflies that flare up in his stomach when Michael giggles at him, before shivering at a particularly merciless gust of wind. “Can I give you a ride somewhere? Home, maybe?”

Michael pretends to think it over, rocking back and forth on his heels as he hums, glancing longingly down the path he’d clearly be walking if he doesn’t accept Ashton’s offer. He swings his foot out in that direction, like he’s thinking about just finishing the walk himself, before he twists it in the direction of Ashton’s car and speed walks over to Ashton’s passenger door.

“A ride home would be great, thank you.” Michael breathes, opening the door and climbing in before slamming the door shut once more. He shudders underneath the warmth of Ashton’s heater, and Ashton rolls his window back up to keep the hot air inside. “Fuck, it’s colder outside than I was expecting.”

Ashton nods in agreement, taking his foot off the brake and easing forward a couple hundred feet. Before he can make it through the intersection, the light turns red again, and he curses under his breath.

“You probably could’ve made it to your place faster if you’d stuck with walking.” Ashton jokes, and Michael waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it. I like this better anyway.” Michael assures him, reaching out to fiddle with the dial on the sound system. Ashton admires Michael’s ability to just do whatever his gut tells him to—Ashton knows he’d have a conniption if he ever did something without asking someone for permission first. With the exception of today’s little impromptu vacation, of course.

They drive in silence—save for the radio and Michael giving him directions—for about fifteen minutes before Michael gives him his final instruction. Ashton pulls up to the curb in front of a little house, quaint but looking in need of some work. The lawn is slightly out of hand, like it hasn’t been maintained in a few years, as if nobody’s even been living here during that time.

Michael thanks him again for the ride, opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk. He lingers for a minute afterwards, looking between Ashton and the front door several times before he sighs, wondering, “Would you like to come in for something to drink? I know it’s early, but at the risk of sounding like a middle aged mother, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” The blue haired boy laughs, but it sounds aborted and nervous.

Ashton feels bad, like at any second Michael’s going to immediately backtrack and confess that he’s embarrassed he even asked. It seems unlikely, since Michael appears to be so confident, but Ashton figures he’s only human. So he accepts Michael’s offer.

The inside of Michael’s home is even more quaint than the outside of it had appeared. There’s dozens of framed posters on the walls, some signed and some not, along with several family portraits. Ashton wonders if the squares of dust surrounding spots where pictures that have clearly been taken down after being up for a long time hold any significance in the life story of the boy that’s currently retrieving drinks for them from the kitchen.

All along the living room are awkwardly empty shelves, and Ashton frowns when he looks at them, wondering what purpose they possibly serve.

“I’d offer to put some music on,” Michael starts, emerging from the kitchen with two bottles of a beer from a brewery Ashton’s never heard of, “but I can’t figure out what the fuck I did with all my vinyls.” He laughs, clinking his bottle against Ashton’s before he takes a swig. “You’d think I’d remember something like that, but I must’ve misplaced ‘em when I moved into this place. Having a bitch of a time finding my comic book collection, too.”

Ashton hums, cringing at the whiff he gets of the probably toxic beer in his hands. He can’t imagine how Michael can possibly drink this and _enjoy_ it. “You collect comic books?”

“Yeah, I love it. Haven’t gone shopping for any in awhile, though.” Michael sighs, looking longingly at the empty shelves on his wall. “Something tells me it’s probably time I grew out of it. Kid stuff, y’know?”

Ashton frowns, giving Michael a look that he hopes reads as genuine. “You shouldn’t give up something that makes you happy. I don't think that the comic books thing makes you childish. Hell, sometimes being a kid at heart is important.”

Michael smiles softly, turning to stare at Ashton like he’s just told him the moon and stars were hung in the sky thanks to his handiwork. Ashton doesn’t feel powerful or important all that often, but so far, he’s felt it every single time that Michael’s looked at him.

Ashton fidgets under the attention, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips, but Michael speaks before Ashton can take the sip he sort of didn’t want to.

“Will you come down to the lake with me tomorrow night?” Michael asks. “It freezes this time of year. I’d love for you to come with me.”

Ashton blushes, looking down at his hands that are growing increasingly sweaty. He’s prepared to avoid the question, but Michael doesn’t allow him to, stepping closer and pushing Ashton’s chin up with his thumb so that they’re face to face.

“I’ll pick you up at eight?”

*****

Calum hadn’t been able to believe it when Ashton had called him last night, telling his best friend that he’d finally met someone for the first time in over two years. He’d been silent, mostly, as Ashton enthused about Michael—about how they’d met when Ashton went to Sussex on an absolute whim, and how Michael was brash and creative and loud in all the ways Ashton just wasn’t, but how Ashton also really fucking loved that about him already.

He’d tried to hide his disappointment when Calum cut him off in the middle of his rambling, muttering something about really having to go. And sure, maybe it was a little elementary for Ashton to be upset about his best friend refusing to hear about his new little crush, but hey. It’s been too long since Ashton’s felt a damn thing for anybody romantically. He thinks he’s entitled to having his best friend listen to that story.

But Ashton pushes that annoyance to the back of his brain the moment that he and Michael see each other again. It’s impossible for him to feel anything but some kind of wonderful around the blue haired boy. Michael makes him feel, like, two years younger, or something.

Michael had been right about the lake being frozen, but that doesn’t mean Ashton’s any less reassured about venturing out onto it. He keeps listening for any signs that the ice might be cracking or giving, despite that Michael keeps on laughing and insisting that the ice is way too thick to break.

“It’s _fine_.” Michael barks, pulling on Ashton’s hands as he glides backwards on the ice. It’s like ice skating, but without the skates, and without the smoothed, Zamboni-treated ice rink. “Come on, lay down with me.”

“I don’t see how this can possibly be safe.” Ashton gripes, but he keeps wobbling his way over to where Michael’s lowering himself onto the frozen ground. “If we die, I’m going to kill you.”

Michael snorts, patting the space beside him. “Quit complaining and lay down with me, will ya?”

Ashton mimics his words immaturely, but complies, uneasily lowering himself down until he’s lying back against the ice beside Michael. It’s fucking freezing, and Ashton probably could’ve stood to wear some thicker clothes, but he’s dealing with it.

The stars are clear as day without the reflections of city lights to subdue them, and Ashton’s mouth goes dry as he stares up at them. He doesn’t appreciate the world around him nearly enough, he doesn’t think.

“What constellations do you know?” Michael asks suddenly, and when Ashton turns to look at him, he finds his bright green eyes are glued to the sky above them.

Ashton wracks his brain, desperate to find some sort of random constellation he could piece together for the beautiful boy beside him, but the longer he thinks and the longer he searches the sky, the more impossible it seems. He can’t _remember_ any, though he swore he knew some, once. He’s not sure how—he never took astronomy in school, or anything.

“I—I don’t know any.” Ashton admits, his voice shaky. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous or put off by that fact. It’s not like it’s completely unheard of for someone not to know any of the patterns in the night sky. But Ashton swears he’s supposed to know at _least_ one. It feels important, somehow.

Michael rolls his head to the side, so that he can smile comfortingly at Ashton. “Hey, don’t worry about it.” He reaches over, resting his gloved hand over Ashton’s, and Ashton suddenly _really_ wants to turn his hand over and entwine their fingers, though he resists the urge. “I kind of know one, though. Gemini. Can I teach it to you?”

Ashton beams, giving Michael the fondest smile he can manage. “Yeah, alright.”

And even though Ashton’s always sort of felt incredibly lost nearly all of the time throughout his life, it’s when Michael points out the connections between several of the stars above them in order to form the twin bodies of Gemini, the boy’s body curled in close to his own, that Ashton feels truly calm.

Like Michael is home, and he never even knew it. Like he’s been waiting his whole damn life to meet this boy.

And hell, maybe he has been.

*****

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon when Ashton pulls back up in front of Michael’s house. They’d ended up staying out at the lake a lot longer than originally intended, but it was too easy to stay there, sitting in easy silence and making even easier conversation as they watched the sky rotate from moon and stars to clouds and dawn.

Michael’s asleep in the passenger seat beside him. His eyes had slipped shut probably the very second that he sat down in it, and Ashton had no issue letting him sleep the whole drive back into town.

Gently, Ashton taps Michael’s cheek. The younger boy crinkles his nose at the contact, and Ashton can’t help but giggle as he moves his touch to Michael’s hair, coaxing his fingers through it as he murmurs Michael’s name. It’s only a few more seconds of the gesture before Michael jolts upright in his seat, eyes opening as he snuffles adorably before he remembers where exactly he is.

“Shit.” Michael murmurs, looking at the time on Ashton’s dashboard. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Ashton hums. “S’alright. Didn’t have the heart to wake you before, but we’re here. I mean, at your house.”

Michael turns, yawning as he looks out the window and takes in the sight of his home. He looks reluctant to even get out of the car, taking his sweet time with stretching before he turns back to give Ashton a look that the older boy can’t quite place.

“Hey, do you want to come inside? Just, like, to sleep.” Michael blushes, looking away like he wishes he hadn’t made the obvious clarification. “I don’t want you to fall asleep at the wheel on your drive home.”

Ashton chuckles, flattered, but he doesn’t say no, either. He doesn’t have work today or tomorrow, and as far as he can remember, he doesn’t have any immediate plans. Settling in for a good eight hours of sleep sounds absolutely fantastic right now, and if he doesn’t have to wait another ten minutes to drive home, well. Even better.

“Yeah, alright.” He says, and Michael beams as he practically throws himself out of the vehicle. Ashton follows suit, turning off the car’s engine and reaching into the backseat to retrieve the change of clothes that Michael had suggested he bring just in case the ice soaked through and made his clothes too wet to continue wearing.

Michael unlocks the front door and lets them in, encouraging Ashton to put his things down anywhere. There’s a pile of mail on the floor just in front of the door’s mail slot where the postman must’ve just delivered. Ashton doesn’t pay any mind, just continues through the foyer and into the living room to set his duffel bag down.

He’s in the middle of wondering how inappropriate it would be to walk into the kitchen and make himself some tea when Michael comes wandering into the room behind him, his eyes glued to one of the thicker envelopes that Ashton had seen in his mail pile.

Only, Michael looks sort of horrified. Ashton feels uneasy, watching Michael with caution as the boy stops across the room from him.

“Are, um.” Ashton starts. “Are you alright?”

He can hear Michael swallow from several meters away, that’s how silent the room has become. When Michael looks up at him, Ashton can see confusion and _hurt_ swimming in them. He isn’t sure what he could’ve possibly _done_ , but Ashton feels desperate to correct it, to make it all better. It makes him feel lower than dirt to see Michael so upset.

“Look at this.” Michael says blandly, holding out a piece of paper that looks to be a photograph, the closer that Ashton gets. Michael’s barely gripping onto it with two of his shaking fingers, and it’s with equally as nervous hands that Ashton reaches out, taking the photo from Michael and rotating it so that he can inspect it for himself.

And, well. Michael’s horror makes a hell of a lot more sense, now. But also, it clears up nothing.

He doesn’t know how it’s possible. It isn’t possible, probably. Can’t be.

Because how in the world can there be a photograph of Ashton that exists, in which he’s got his arms around a Michael that’s at _least_ two years younger than the Michael he’s got standing in front of him right now, when he’s only just met the guy two days ago?

It’s a joke. It _has_ to be. That’s the only reasonable explanation.

He flips the photograph over, absolutely stunned to recognize their names and the year 2014 written in Ashton’s own unmistakable handwriting. It doesn’t make any fucking _sense_.

“This doesn’t make any fucking sense.” Ashton repeats out loud, looking from the photograph to Michael’s increasingly paling face. His eyes are cast downward, scanning over what appears to be a letter enclosed with the photograph. “What does that say?”

Michael clears his throat. “It’s—it’s from Calum?” The younger boy looks up, his eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t know you knew him. He’s my old coworker’s roommate.”

Ashton nods slowly. “He’s my best friend from secondary. So is Luke. I didn’t know you worked with him.”

Michael’s hands keep shaking as he imitates Ashton’s nod, looking back down to the letter because everything’s clearly too much for him to process. Ashton can relate.

“It says, ‘After Ashton informed me that you’ve been in contact once more, I’ve decided to send back your pre-op audio recordings from Lacuna, INC., along with a photograph that I think that you should have. I hope receiving this information will help keep you two from making the same mistake twice.’” Michael reads, his brows knitted deep on his forehead. Ashton can feel his own expression mirroring the blue haired boy’s.

“What the hell is Lacuna?” Ashton asks. “And what does that even mean, pre-op? What the fuck kind of surgery did we have?”

“I don’t fucking know, Ashton!” Michael interrupts, his patience clearly reaching the end, and quickly. He’s leveling Ashton with a hostile stare, and the older boy sighs, admitting defeat. When Michael’s content that Ashton won’t bombard him with questions anymore, he shuffles the envelope around in his hand, tilting it until two cassette tapes fall out of it and land in Michael’s open palm.

Ashton bites his lip, opening his hand when Michael reaches over to hand over one of the two tapes. This one’s marked with Ashton’s first and last name on it, along with a date stamp from only a few days ago. He doesn’t remember recording anything. He _knows_ he would’ve remembered doing something that recently.

“You have one, too.” Ashton observes, and Michael nods. “What do we, um. What do we do?”

Michael shrugs, setting the envelope and letter on the coffee table as he wanders over to the stereo system he has hooked up on the entertainment center a few feet away. Ashton’s amazed that there’s even a tape deck in it, but also sort of thankful for it.

“I kind of want to listen to them.” Michael states. “Would you be okay with that?”

Ashton just sort of lifts his shoulders, not really a yes or a no. But he doesn’t think Michael was waiting for a real response anyway, since he opens the tape deck and puts his cassette in, closing the deck and pressing play.

Those few moments where the technology struggles to read the tape are torturous, and Ashton’s genuinely afraid he might pass out during those seconds.

And then, it starts.

“Alright,” an unfamiliar voice on the recording asks, his voice deep and clearly much older than Michael or Ashton. “Go ahead and state your name, and then tell me why you’re here at Lacuna today.”

Someone clears their throat, before Michael’s recorded voice clearly says, “My name is Michael Clifford, and I’m here to erase Ashton Irwin?”

Ashton winces, but not harder than Michael himself does.

The unfamiliar voice says, “Good. Now, go ahead and tell me about Ashton.”

Michael’s recording snorts, his voice gruff and short as he speaks next. “What’s there to tell? He’s just—he’s fuckin’ _boring_ , Feldy. I don’t—I hate the way I feel when I’m around him. It’s like, he’s so controlling, you know? Everything I ever do, _that’s_ a problem, because it’s always Ashton’s way, no questions asked.” Michael’s recording sighs, and even though he’s clearly upset, he also sounds almost _remorseful_. “I don’t _like_ myself when I’m with him. And he never talks to me, never tells me things, yet when I make assumptions he gets so _angry_ and he turns me into this person that I just hate being. I’m not mean, not usually. But he makes me act so mean. I hate that he gets into my fucking head like that, I really do. I can’t take that anymore. I can’t live like that, the way he makes me feel.”

There’s a pause on the tape, the silence filled by the sound of someone scratching notes down onto a piece of paper. During the silence, the real Michael turns to face him, apologies laced all over his face.

“I don’t think you’re boring.” Michael whispers. “I’m sorry that I said those mean things about you.”

Ashton shrugs. “It’s alright.” It's hard to hide the pain in his voice, even though he knows he shouldn't really be mad at Michael. "S'not your fault, really."

The Michael from the tape speaks up again, and this time his voice is so soft it’s almost a murmur. “Is this the right thing, doc? Am I doing the right thing here?” There's more shuffling around on the tape, before something clicks, and the tape cuts out.

"I think it's done." Michael notes, staring at the tape deck as he chews on his thumb nail. Ashton wants to tell him to stop, that he'll ruin his nail beds, but he can't get over the fact that Michael thinks he's controlling. He doesn't want to further support the boy's impression of him, if it's negative like that.

Ashton fusses with the tape in his own hand. He's fully prepared to just snap it in half and pretend this whole thing never happened—go back to his own apartment and delete Michael's number and avoid talking about this freak show of a morning to anyone else ever, for the rest of his life.

Michael turns to him, holding out his hand and eyeing Ashton's tape. "Please? It's only fair." He points out, and Ashton has to agree with that. Michael deserves to hear what Ashton's tape says, even if Ashton doesn't want to know himself.

The younger boy replaces his tape with Ashton's, closing the deck and pressing play as he leans back against the wall by the kitchen. As the people on the recording shuffle around, Michael asks, "Want something to drink?"

Ashton huffs a laugh. "You got whiskey?"

Michael shakes his head. "I have vodka?"

The older boy sits down on the couch, running his fingers through his hair as he tries to make some sense of this, to calm himself down. "That's fine. Bring the whole bottle."

It comes out sounding like it might be a joke, but Ashton's definitely not kidding. Even better, Michael does in fact reemerge from the kitchen with an entire bottle of the clear liquor, and Ashton could honestly kiss him, in spite of the situation.

"Alright," the voice from before says again on this tape, "let's get started. Go ahead and tell me your name, and then why you're here at Lacuna today."

Ashton braces himself, but it's still earth shattering when he hears his own voice saying things he can't remember, no matter how hard he tries.

"My name's Ashton Irwin, and I'm, uh. Here to erase Michael Clifford." His recorded voice sounds a lot more hesitant than Michael's had initially. Ashton wonders if he'd been completely sure of what he wanted when he went through with this.

"Very good, Ashton." The voice—the doctor?—says. "Now, go ahead and tell me a little bit about Michael."

Ashton takes the bottle from Michael's hands, bringing the rim to his mouth and tossing back a gulp of it. It's not exactly good, like this, but it couldn't be less about the taste of it right now.

"Okay, well, um. I met Michael at a beach party. We had some mutual friends, I guess, that happened to invite the both of us. I remember, he sat down next to me and just started talking like it was nothing—how that blew my mind, because I'm not… _like_ that. I'm not outgoing like he is." Ashton's recorded voice pauses for a moment to clear his throat, and his voice sounds watery when he starts again. "He's younger than me, and I think that was a lot of the problem. He, just…he never really grew up the way I imagined he would? Because he was twenty, and he was asking me about having _kids_ and getting _married_ but he was still getting smashed out at the bars and collecting comic books every other fucking day. I had to do _everything_.”

Michael tenses up beside him, taking the bottle of vodka back before taking his own swig. "I thought you said the comic book thing didn't make me childish."

Ashton shakes his head desperately. "I don't think that about you. I don't think you’re childish."

Michael coughs. "Because it really kind of hurts me that you would say that. I'm _not_ a kid."

The tape continues on, mercilessly, but Ashton isn't hearing any of it anymore. He _knows_ it's his voice, that's indisputable. But that's also what makes it worse. How can they deny having these emotions and feelings of hate and discontent towards each other when they've said it before, clear as day?

"I think I'm, um. I think I'm going to leave. I don't really think that I can be here right now." Ashton says blandly, standing up and reaching for his duffel bag. Michael follows suit, jumping to his feet and watching as Ashton starts heading back down the hall towards the front door.

"Wait, no!" Michael calls after him, but Ashton just keeps on walking.

Once he's already opened the door and is halfway down the walkway that leads out to the street, Michael cries, "Please, wait." It's only then that Ashton forces himself to stop, turning around to glance at where Michael's still standing on his front porch, lingering between stepping onto the walkway with Ashton or running back into his house. He looks scared.

Ashton laughs once, but it sounds more sad and in disbelief than anything else. "For _what_ , Michael?"

Michael makes a wounded sound, apparently making the decision to walk down his porch steps and join Ashton on the walkway. The sun is up a little higher now, and Ashton can see the glimmers of unshed tears in Michael's tired eyes.

"I don't know, just." Michael shrugs, smiling softly. "I've only known you for a day and I'm already wrapped around your finger. Doesn't that have to mean _something_?"

Ashton sighs. "Michael, you said it yourself on that tape. In a matter of time, you'll stop feeling that way, it doesn't matter what we feel right now."

"Doesn't it, though?" Michael asks, opening his arms in an obvious gesture, but Ashton isn't sure what he's supposed to be suggesting. "Ash, I can’t see anything that I don't like about you. Why do we have to back out of this before we've even gone anywhere, just because of some stupid shit we said on a couple of lousy tapes?"

"That's just it, Mike! You _will_ see stuff you don't like about me." Ashton explains, desperately. " _That’s_ the issue here. Clearly, that's _always_ been our issue. I'll end up thinking that you act like a child, and you'll think that I'm boring, and we'll just get so _sick_ each other some days." He feels hot tears prickling at the corners of his own eyes, and he fights the urge to wipe them away when Michael inches even closer, filling the gap between them. "We're not perfect, Michael. Our story isn't meant to end any other way. It's just not."

Michael keeps giving Ashton this gentle smile, shrugging his shoulders casually as if to say, 'so what?’ "But maybe it _won't_ end that way. Maybe we can have another go at it, and get it right this time."

Ashton drops his duffel bag in shock when Michael cups his cheek in his small hand, and his skin feels swelteringly hot under the touch.

"You think?" Ashton whispers, after a long, silent moment. "Do you think we could actually make it work?"

Michael leans in, brushing their noses together. The gesture feels painfully familiar, deep in Ashton's chest, and he wishes he could remember all the times that Michael used to do this to him. It's fucking scary, knowing that Michael used to hold him and kiss him and touch him like this, but not being able to recollect any of it.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm not sure, but." Michael shrugs. "But for you, I'd really like to try."

Ashton exhales, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds before he laughs softly, shaking his head in disbelief. He can't believe they're doing this.

"Fuck, okay." Ashton says, and Michael grins from ear to ear. The blue haired boy practically vibrates in excitement, readjusting his grip so that he's holding the back of Ashton's neck now, fingers playing in the curls of Ashton's hair. "Okay, let's try again."

Michael cheers, bringing his other hand up to caress the opposite side of Ashton's face. Ashton can't stop smiling, his cheeks starting to hurt with the force of it.

And when Michael kisses him for what Ashton's going to remember as being the first time, but knows is actually probably the thousandth time, Ashton swears it feels just a little something like _fate_.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, hit me up on [tumblr](http://dafeedil.tumblr.com/) to yell at me, ask me questions about this confusing thing, or whatever it is you kids are doing these days.


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